


Idealistic

by whatshouldntbe (orphan_account)



Series: Secrets [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blackmail, Explicit Language, F/M, Family Drama, Genderqueer Character, M/M, Magic, Oblivious Jackson, Origin Story, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Road Trips, Romance, Trapper Witches, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-28
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-17 04:52:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/whatshouldntbe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Because,” Jackson grits out and his heart is racing a mile a minute. He swallows, looks her right in the eyes, and says, “I’m your son.”</p><p>Jacqueline’s lips part with a quiet gasp and her hand goes completely limp in shock.</p><p>“Whoa! Cool!” Malia chirps in excitement. “That explains everything! Mom, he looks just like you! Oh man, I always wanted an older brother and you smelled just right. Hey mom, how come you never said anythin—”</p><p>That’s about all Jackson can take before he flees, dignity be damned. </p><p>or</p><p>The first week Stiles Argent moves to Beacon Hills is, without a doubt, the worst week of Jackson’s life. [Companion Piece]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Visual Reference Guide

**CHARACTER PICTURES:**

 

  


 

**THE NIMROD 'TRAPPER WITCHES' IN ORDER BY RANK:**

  
( **RIVER GODDESS** ) **  
**

  
  



	2. Strangers in Paradise

 

_If men had all they wished, they would be often ruined._

**–Aesop's Fables**

888

The first week Stiles Argent moves to Beacon Hills is, without a doubt, the worst week of Jackson's life.

It starts on the first day of school. Jackson's leaning against his Porsche in the school's parking lot and avoiding his first period class, Geometry. It's not that he hates math, he just doesn't care much for the person who teaches it. Mrs. Romanoff is a beady eyed math Nazi with that thick white bird's nest she calls hair. She also has these sickly looking hands, knobby knuckles with easily seen wiry green and blue veins running through. Jackson has always figured that if Death had hands, they'd look just like hers. The woman herself wasn't exactly the definition of delightful. Back in the spring semester of his freshman year, Mrs. Romanoff had almost given him a failing grade for _one_ missing assignment and nearly cost him his spot on the lacrosse team.

Math Nazi.

Needless to say, he isn't all that eager to make it to her class on time, if at all. He's contemplating getting that period switched out for something else and taking Geometry at a different time with a different teacher when a red SUV pulls up in front of the school. He watches as a lithe brunette and some stupid looking kid, climb out. The girl looks like an uptight version of Snow White while the other guy looks like a human version of Goofy.

Jackson's not sure if they're related or not, he can't really see them all that well from this distance, but they look nothing alike if they are. They're both pale and well-dressed. Nice coats, nice shoes and confident shoulders. Jackson figures they come from good money—might be worth noticing. His dad always says that it's not about what you know but who you know. Hard work pales heavily in comparison to having the right connections. Jackson hasn't decided what he wants to do when he graduates—maybe he'll go into the law field like his old man, who knows.

The red SUV pulls off and he watches as the two of them slowly make their way up the sidewalk. Snow White frowns and looks annoyed. She looks around with an apprehensive expression. She's like a black panther that's been taken out of its natural habitat and dropped into a zoo with other wild cats that have been confined behind glass all their lives. Jackson traces his tongue along the edge of his bottom teeth as he watches them closely. Snow White says something as she crosses her arms, which makes Goofy say something to her while he gestures obnoxiously. The kid's like some crackhead sock-puppet. That could get annoying real fast.

Jackson snorts and pushes off his Porsche. Whatever interest he has in them immediately dies the moment they get all chummy with each other. Affection is boring and Jackson can't be bothered with people who waste their time on it. He checks his watch and decides to head to the front desk.

He flirts his way out of Geometry with some girl named Nikki, fresh from college, who rearranges his schedule for him.

888

The next time he sees Goofy and Snow White, it's at lunch.

Jackson's thumbing a green apple and sitting beside Lydia, who is texting away on her phone and doesn't even attempt to touch the salad he bought for her. Money wasted, yet again—but not really his money in the first place so he cares very little.

Her thin, nimbly manicured little fingers of her right hand are winding into the strawberry blonde curls dipping into her ample cleavage. Jackson's eyes idly slide across the swell of her breasts under her blue shirt, to her fingers in her hair, up the delicate swell of her chin and to the glossy plumpness of her lips. They purse around every vowel she crosses over the illuminated screen of her phone and Jackson finds his eyes jumping up to her perfectly arched eyebrows before dropping down to her hands again. She's always texting, always uninvolved, always socializing with people who aren't within physical proximity.

Jackson feels something thick in his mind, like a haze he can't think around—a mental wall. He used to think Lydia was something. He doesn't anymore—can't really remember why he found her worthwhile to begin with. She's just there now. Another person in his life. Another _something_ he finds he can't care much about. Another chess piece to his game of a life he's been growing more and more apathetic over.

He turns the apple over in his hands with a sigh. He's feeling empty again.

Danny's sitting across from them, going on and on about some stud he met online—Alpha478. Danny might have said his real name was Patrick or something like that. Jackson's not really sure, he can't actually be bothered enough to pay attention. The green apple in his hand is more fascinating than these two. Maybe he should get new friends, hang with new people—he thinks about it often enough.

He lifts the apple to his mouth, takes a hard bite and turns his gaze over to the far right of the cafeteria. He sees the familiar outline of Snow White, sitting at the end of the lunch table. Her back is to him, but he doesn't mind. He just traces his eyes over the curves of her hips and the patch of skin peeking out at the base of her spine and along the rim of her belted jeans. He wonders how tight they are, about how hard it would be to wiggle a few fingers inside. He thinks about the swell of her breasts and how milk white her thighs must be. He thinks about what she'd look like with her red mouth around his co—

_Bam._

Jackson frowns and flicks his gaze up, catching sight of Goofy shaking his hands with a wince and a laugh. Snow White laughs too and they've caught almost the whole of the cafeteria's attention. Neither of them seems to mind or notice. Goofy just holds out his hands again and Snow White puts her hands on top. Goofy jumps at her with a grin and Snow White flinches and pulls her hands away every time. Finally Goofy takes pity on her and swats at her hands, hitting her right on the back of her hands before he fists pumps in triumphant.

Jackson frowns. No one can be that happy. No one can laugh so unrestrained like that. Goofy and Snow White must be touched in the head—no other explanation fits.

"Gorgeous isn't he?" Danny says when he turns and looks in the direction that Jackson's looking. "Must be new."

"Whatever," Jackson says and looks away, taking another bite from his apple. The apple tastes sour in his mouth—too stale, not fresh enough. Too soft, not crisp like it should be—he's already tired of it. He winces when he hears Goofy laugh again. He spits the apple out and onto the floor, ignoring the face that Lydia makes. The janitor will take care of it, that's what he gets paid for.

"Bet you know though," Danny murmurs and casts Lydia a cryptic smirk. "Come on, Lydia. You know something."

"I know something," Lydia agrees and types out a quick message. "They are new. Allison and Stiles Argent. Total siblings," she supplies, never looking up from her phone. "He's sixteen while she just turned seventeen. Still in the same grade though—probably means they move around so much that she got held back, which in turn must suck, like a lot."

"Wonder what their parents do then," Danny says as he continues to peer over at them. He's angling his body for the best vantage point and Jackson glares at him for it.

"Blaming the parental unit—smart," Lydia grins, lowering her phone for once and joining in on the staring.

"Well you'd have to wonder. You know, if they have to move around so much. Maybe they're parents work for the government," Danny guesses, rubbing three fingers back and forth against the slope of his chin.

Jackson doesn't say anything. He doesn't have anything he wants to say about it. He's over it—been over it since the first time he'd seen Goofy and Snow White this morning. He looks down at his half-eaten apple and slowly presses his thumbnail into the white until juice starts to squirt out and the top of his nail bumps into a hard seed.

"Government's plausible," Lydia agrees as she cocks her head and twirls her finger around a curl again. She purses her lips and frowns thoughtfully. "Or they could just be like—a family of hipsters."

"No way. They don't even have the vibe. Not to mention they aren't even outfitted for the part," Danny points out as he nods his chin towards them. "But you never know, I guess." He turns to Jackson. "What do you think? Hippies or government lackeys?"

"Who even gives a shit?" Jackson mutters and stands. He throws his half-eaten apple in the garbage when he passes them and exits the cafeteria five minutes before the bells rings, angry for reasons he doesn't understand.

He spends the rest of his day feeling anxious and suffering from an unrelenting migraine. He also glares at anyone who tries to chat him up, who waves at him, tries to get his attention, to every teacher that directs a question at him, to anyone who smiles and laughs.

The last ten minutes of his final period feels hellishly drawn out. As he taps the end of his pencil against his notebook, rubber eraser meeting thin notebook paper, he scowls at the clock above the chalkboard and wonders briefly what the fuck kind of name is Stiles anyway before he forces himself not to wonder at all.

888

His next run in with them can be blamed entirely on Lydia. She can be pushy and determined when something catches her interest. Goofy and Snow White are no different. Just the shiny new toes she's been waiting for to land in her already perfectly cultivated jungle gym.

Jackson's just trying to mentally prepare himself for the lacrosse try-outs when Lydia corners him at his own locker. She blathers on about being friendly and how nice it would be to expand their little circle. He indulges Lydia when he can, which is not always, but she does enough to keep herself occupied while playing the beautiful doting girlfriend to his athletically gorgeous boyfriend. And since she makes him look good by being his, he figures he owes her a thing or two in return. Fair play is fair play and he's always known that. What he and Lydia have isn't special, it's just something that will work for as long as their willing to work it.

Love is fictional and Jackson knows better.

He throws on his jacket and swings his backpack over one shoulder as he drapes his other arm over Lydia. Her heels click away against the floor as she leads them to the far end of the hall. They garner curious glances, envious glares and coveting gazes as they sweep down the corridor. A king and a queen, that's what they were—gracing the lowly peasants in their court with their grace and excellence. The thought makes Jackson smirk and he winks at some round-faced freshmen girl with braces and she swoons against her locker—he's a little less bored now.

" _Are you saying that for me sis, or for yourself? I can't tell._ "

Jackson frowns. That voice—it grates the shit out of his nerves for no reason at all. Then he gets agitated more because he's irritated for no particular reason. He straightens the creases out on his face as they draw closer to Goofy and Snow White. He'll be damned if he'll let his annoyance show. Goofy and Snow White don't deserve any of it anyway.

"A little of both _,_ " Snow White says with an easy smile and vague shrug.

Jackson feels his eyes dip down to the long curve of her neck. He doesn't spare Goofy a glance—not really worth his time. Snow White's got more of the angles he's interested in.

"Allison and Stiles right? I'm Lydia," Lydia interjects when Snow White and Goofy pause long enough to hear it. She wastes no time in flashing one of her winning smiles.

Jackson snorts internally. She's beautiful but she's secret a shark. She can get one whiff of fresh blood and she's ready to swim circles around some unsuspecting divers.

Goofy's staring at him, openly, and with a bit of interest and curiosity in his eyes. He stares until his expression morphs into something hesitant.

Jackson ignores it. Ever since he's hit puberty, and even a little bit before then, people staring at him has been a gender-neutral problem he's always experienced. Danny would be happy to know that if he went for the new kid, it'd probably be returned.

"You two are new. How are you liking Beacon Hills so far?" Lydia continues and feigns a look of interest.

"Probably as much as every other place we've been," Snow White answers vaguely. She seems guarded, like she doesn't trust their intentions—she'd be smart not to.

"Hm," Lydia hum, pretending to give it thought. Jackson knows she's just strategizing, trying to find a way through Snow White's armor. One glance to Goofy spells it all. "And what do you think?" she asks, looking at him with lowered lashes.

Jackson feels his jaw tighten.

"Oh I don't think. Like ever," Goofy replies with furrowed brows. He glances quickly at Jackson then away again. "Too dangerous. Like the one time I did it, I ended up with a severe concussion. So—never again."

Jackson frowns again. Goofy's a smart ass. Jackson doesn't like that—doesn't like his sarcasm, doesn't like him. Everything about him annoys Jackson to bits. His eyes are too light, too happy, too gold, too focused on him. The staring is bothering him, and that's not something that happens to Jackson often. He's usually the one unsettling people and not the other way around.

"He's kidding. He does that," Snow White explains, unhelpfully.

Jackson glances down at her hands—he likes them. Her wrists look delicate and her fingers are small—knuckles peeking out under her skin in an alluring way. He wonders how many she can fit inside of herself.

"Oh," Lydia says, shoulders tightening as she plasters on a smile. She's annoyed now, he can tell. "I like jokes. Right Jackson?"

Jackson frowns again, and Goofy's eyes dart down to his mouth. His frown deepens at that. "Whatever," he mutters and looks away to the poster outlining the date, time and theme for this year's Spring Formal. Great. Lydia's going to want to go all out for that. He sighs.

Lydia blathers on about her upcoming party. By Snow White's blatant pause, Jackson can tell she doesn't want to go. She wrangles Goofy into giving a justification for the both of them. Goofy rambles on like an idiot with shit excuses and Jackson can feel his migraine returning.

Lydia eats it up though. She's practically got little stars in her eyes for the kid and that aggravates Jackson further. She's usually harder to impress—it took him six months before she warmed up to him enough to even have a five-minute conversation. But this little dweeb spouts bullshit and he's already won her over?

 _Fuck him_ , Jackson thinks. _Fuck him and the red SUV he came here in_.

This isn't jealousy at all.

Jackson shifts beside Lydia, restless and discontent. He's itching to expel his aggression, to get as far away from Goofy as possible.

"Wait—lacrosse? You guys seriously have lacrosse?" Goofy suddenly asks with awe.

Jackson can't help it—he tunes back in.

"Please tell me you're not joking because I'm already developing some feelings about this," Goofy continues.

"Best goddamn lacrosse team this side of California," Jackson finds himself confirming. He thinks about how this could work to his advantage. If he could lure Goofy in and embarrass him out on the field, he has a good chance of running Goofy off for good and Lydia wouldn't want to be bothered would him. Lydia never has time for losers, he's had to learn that the hard way. Goofy will soon be one less headache Jackson will have to deal with on a day-to-day base. "Why? You play?"

Goofy seems to have gone brain dead and his sister answers for him before he snaps out of it, stammering excitedly and latching onto Jackson's jacket with a, "Dude, please tell me you guys are still screening people for the team."

Jackson twitches and resists the urge to punch Goofy in his overly excited face. The kid smells like sunflowers for whatever reason. Jackson decides he hates sunflowers now. He calmly slaps Goofy's hands off instead and while Goofy rubs at his skin with a wince, Jackson says, "You could say that. I guess I could give Coach a heads up, and see if anyone has some extra uniform you can borrow. Do you have—"

Goofy cuts him off by yanking his lacrosse stick from out the side of his backpack, saying, "Way ahead of you."

Snow White looks baffled but Goofy waves her off, yammering away with that grating voice of his.

Jackson just turns with a smirk, biding his time. He thinks about Goofy tripping over his own feet and face-planting into the ground out on the field and suddenly his day grows a bit brighter. Jackson will have to laugh the loudest when Goofy makes an ass of himself. He wants to be sure the little shit knows it's him.

888

Jackson suits up and laces both his shoes and the head of his lacrosse stick. He ignores the way Danny makes a fool of himself over Goofy, practically jumping at the opportunity to lend the extra uniform he keeps stashed in his locker. Danny's being a complete spaz and it's disgraceful. Goofy just smiles patiently with those stupid gold eyes like he knows and he tugs his shirt over his head. Danny stares and makes more of an undignified fool of himself as he runs his eyes over the kid's pale freckled skin and defined abs. Jackson frowns at them both and turns to exit, kicking some dick's gym bag out of his way as he does so.

Coach Finstock is standing out of the sidelines barking out drills to all the new underclassmen. Jackson shifts his shoulders with a smirk as he watches the pathetic newcomers. There's no way he won't get captain this year, especially since Robby Malone, their last captain, graduated the summer before. He's practically got the position bagged since there's looking to be no real competition for him. He deserves it anyway, he's worked for it.

"Coach," Jackson says as he saddles up beside the neurotic man.

Coach Finstock chews his gum and shakes his head in disappointment at something before he shifts his attention. He assesses Jackson for a moment before he returns his gaze out onto the field. "I have to say—it's either I'm getting older or the kids that come in are getting younger and more stupid," he mutters before he sighs. "But nevertheless—what can I do for you, Jason?"

"It's Jackson," Jackson corrects tightly. He's all too used to grown-ups brushing him off or paying him the least amount of attention he deserves. He takes a deep breath before he continues. "Got a new recruit," he explains vaguely. "He wants in on the team. I said I'd run it by you."

"Hell I don't care," Coach Finstock says, quite candidly. "How worse could be from all the crap I've seen so far?"

"He's over there," Jackson points to Goofy, who's trying to shrug his uniform right as he ambles his way over.

"The gangly looking one?" Coach Finstock says skeptically.

Jackson smirks.

"Well what's his name?"

"Argentina or something," Jackson shrugs carelessly and looks towards the stands at Lydia, who's snuggled up beside Snow White. They're chatting one another up, probably about useless girl topics. They've most likely come to play cheerleader.

"Argent!" Coach Finstock barks.

It throws Goofy off and he stumbles to his knees as he looks around wildly. Like some kind of brainless dog that's too excited to decide which direction it wants to go.

Jackson snorts.

Pathetic.

" _Jesus_ ," Coach Finstock mutters woefully. He waves Goofy over. "Jackson here says you're interested in joining our ranks."

Goofy replies in that exuberant cartoonish way of his.

Jackson tunes them out. He starts running drills in his mind, drills he knows well, and drills he's practiced every minute and every chance he got to have alone. He shrugs these thoughts off when Coach Finstock orders them to line up, putting McCall in the goal. Jackson smirks as he cracks his neck, ignoring the fact that Goofy is behind him, and thinks how easy this will be.

McCall doesn't block one goal and that's all the more amusing. Honestly, Jackson doesn't know why the little wimp even bothers trying out every year. He'll never be anything more than a wheezing benchwarmer.

When its Jackson's turn, he finds no mercy in him to take it easy on McCall and he charges down the field, criss-crossing and tossing the ball with enthusiastic aggression. McCall, being the tiny weakling he is, flinches and falls back as if the force of the air of the ball flying past was enough to knock him over.

Jackson snorts.

McCall just does wonders for his ego.

Danny's giving him this disappointed look. Nothing new there. Maybe he always hopes that Jackson will change. There's nothing _to_ change. So Jackson just sniffs and yanks off his helmet, high-fiving Tom, who can, unlike Danny, appreciate the humor of the situation.

"Hey, Jackson, man—don't you think you should lay off?" Goofy says with this disapproving tone.

Jackson stiffens for a fraction of a second, stony fury and indignation washing over him like a cold wave of water before he forces himself to smirk carelessly. Just who does this kid think he is? He's been here for a day and already he wants to play morals and good intentions? Jackson's got half a mind to just slug him for even thinking that he'd care to take his advice.

"No, I don't," he replies. He steps in close, right in Goofy's personal space. "Why? Do you have a problem with the way I do things? Coach doesn't, no one else does. So I'd keep the comments to yourself if I were you." He claps Goofy on the shoulder and tightens his grip, enjoying the infuriated look that flashes through Goofy's gold eyes. "Think of it this way—with McCall as the goalie, he'll actually make you look as good as you think you are." Jackson grins and winks, heading to the end of the line, silently hoping that the kid makes an ass of himself.

He does, just not the way Jackson wants him to. By some unbelievable turn of events, McCall had managed to catch the ball Goofy had tossed his way. And Jackson has to grudgingly admit that it wasn't a half-bad throw. Clearly Goofy has been practicing for a while, if not longer, not that he'd led on about it. Jackson doesn't dwell on it. The fact that McCall keeps catching and blocking goals is a distraction all its own.

It's infuriating.

It's impossible.

And it certainly doesn't make it better that he even manages to catch and block all of Jackson's well-aimed tosses. Jackson's so angry, how dare McCall show him up? He's close to breaking his lacrosse stick over Goofy's head, who by the way is the only other person on the team who has been able to land successful follow-throughs. Jackson narrows his eyes at McCall. He's got this sickly sweet looking grin on his face every time Goofy comes around to take his turn.

God _damn_ it. Fucking hell. Jackson could almost laugh.

The little _shit_ is not catching them on purpose.

 _That's bullshit,_ Jackson thinks as he yanks off his helmet and spits into the grass. _Complete and utter bullshit._

"—but I've decided to make McCall and Argent co-captains of the team…"

Dead Silence.

Jackson feels his hands ball into fists at his sides. He turns away and heads towards the locker room. He can't stand to hear anymore. His eyes are burning, his throat is tightening and his chest is throbbing. Fuck. He will not fucking cry about this. Even though it's not fair. It's not _fair_. He's been practicing and losing sleep and he—he—he's the one that _deserved_ that position. But what does he get? _Nothing_. Not a goddamn thing. But some little gold-eyed prick skips and twirls and suddenly he's qualified to be _co-captain._

What the _ever-living_ fuck?

"Jackson!"

Jackson pauses mid-stride at the end of the bleachers and closes his eyes. God, this is the last thing he needs right now.

Lydia obviously doesn't know that because she's stomping down the bleachers to stand right before him with her hands on her hips. "What the hell was that huh?" she hisses with a disappointed glare.

Jackson takes a deep breath. "I just want take a shower and change," he says with as much patience he can muster for the moment.

"Oh a shower?" Lydia mocks.

Jackson's lips tighten and he looks off to the side.

"You were embarrassing, and for all your talk about how ready you were and how you were just _so_ sure you'd make captain this year, it sure as hell looks the exact opposite," Lydia continues.

Jackson tightens his jaw and hides his hands behind him. He was taught never to hit a girl, no matter how much they fucking upset you.

"I'm disappointed by what I saw, Jackson. You could have done better," Lydia says, matter-of-factly.

"Um," Snow White says, reminding Jackson that she's even there. "I'll just—I'm going to congratulate my brother. Uh—I'll text you."

"Yeah sure," Lydia sighs and halfheartedly hugs the other girl. They both spend a moment watching Snow White walk away and hop onto Goofy, who's shaking hands with everyone like he's just been elected the goddamn president of the United States.

Jackson scoffs and looks away. His eyes wander back to Lydia, who's eyeing Goofy like he's some shiny new diamond necklace. That's just about all he can take right now. He pushes past her and ignores her demands for him to come back and that the conversation was far from over. Honestly he has no time for it. He just wants to beat the living crap out of someone, and as he watches McCall disappear around the school towards the locker rooms, he knows just who that someone is.

Five minutes later finds him wrapping a towel around himself and giving McCall a good talking to. He probably would have done more if it hadn't been for the fact that his stupid side-kick, Lahey, was hovering over his shoulder like some bodyguard. Jackson still remembers the broken nose Lahey had given to him in eighth grade just because he'd made Blondie, or Reyes, or whatever the hell that girl's name is, cry when he shoved her into the milk cart. Jackson's got no doubt that if he tried to rough up McCall, Lahey would have no problem with giving him another broken nose.

Still, Jackson gives McCall some half-ass threat and punches a locker beside his head just to watch him and his bodyguard flinch. McCall isn't who he's pissed off at anyway.

"You know if it's any consolation, Jackson, I thought you tried your very hardest out there," Goofy taunts. "I'd give you a B- for effort."

Jackson gives him the finger as he disappears into the showers and reigns in on the urge to ram Goofy's forehead through a locker. He cleans up and ignores Danny when he asks him if he's okay. He towels off and shoves himself into his clothes before snatching all his lacrosse equipment up and leaves without offering Danny a ride home like he usually would.

When he arrives home, it's empty, as usual. He grabs the bottle of red wine his parents keep in the top right cabinet in the kitchen next to the refrigerator and stomps up to his room. He slams his door shut and yanks out the cork with his bare hands. He's angry enough that the cork comes out with little difficulty and he downs the bottle without another thought. Sometime later, he won't be able to remember when, he throws the bottle at the widest wall of his shower and stumbles off to bed, passing out on the end of it with his shoes still on.

He dreams about freckles, about gleaming dog tags, about red eyes and a sea of people with no faces.

888

Jackson wakes to the sound of his alarm and the pulsing ache of a migraine. His stomach hurts and his tongue feels thick and spongy in his mouth. He stumbles into his bathroom to take a piss and almost slices his foot open because of a piece of broken glass lying haphazardly on the middle of his floor. So now he's pissing in his toilet, aim all off, with a bleeding foot and a splitting headache. His day is already starting off as shit.

Great.

It takes him a good while to clean up all the glass and piss and blood, but he manages somehow. He takes a quick shower and wraps his foot before stuffing himself into some dark jeans and a shirt that says "… _and no FUCKS were given that day_." He's pretty sure his teachers will try and give him hell for it so he wraps some designer scarf around his neck after he shrugs on some designer leather jacket. It covers up most of the text on his shirt and even if it didn't Jackson really isn't in the kind of mood to give a fuck. He doesn't bother all too much with his hair and he slaps on some black wayfarers before downing a couple vicodin pills he'd nicked from his mother's medicine cabinet. She's got plenty more where that came from so it wasn't like she would notice anyway.

He jogs down the steps and grabs an apple on his way out, giving his parents a halfhearted salute as he passes them. They're sitting at the dining room table, eating a breakfast prepared by their live-in maid, Loretta. His parents vaguely acknowledge him and he's more than happy to slip their notice but Loretta, who is all hips, big shoulders, beautiful dark skin and a forceful forty-seven year old, rounds the corner and drags him into the kitchen by the ear. She shoves him beside the sink and stands back, staring at him knowingly.

Jackson sighs. He knows how this will go. Why wouldn't he? Loretta's been around for as long as he can remember and she's more of a parent to him than his real parents.

"Boy don't you sigh at me," Loretta says sternly, glaring at him and placing her hands on her hips.

"Good morning, Loretta," Jackson says with a smile she probably sees right through. "You braid your hair again?" he asks before he takes a hefty bite of his apple. "Looks nice," he mutters.

Loretta expression flattens and she doesn't take the compliment. "Take them glasses off," she merely says.

Jackson frowns but does as he's told.

"There now. You didn't get good sleep. I can see them bags all under your eyes, boy. You been drinkin' again? Don't lie to me either," Loretta warns and turns her head and lifts her finger to punctuate her next words. "I put a nice bottle of Chteau La Mondotte Saint-Emilion in that cabinet up there—don't make that face like you don't know what I'm talkin' bout, you know exactly where and what I mean—I put that bottle right up there for when your daddy bring his clients over for dinner. Not so some underage boy can waltz his ass through like he paid for the goddamn thing and snatch it when he think no body gone notice."

Jackson winces, completely caught.

"Now you gone pay back that bottle out of your allowance, I don't care what yo' momma or your daddy say about, _"Oh boys will be boys. I'm sure he didn't mean it. Oh I'm sure he's sorry. Oh I'm sure he won't do it again"._ No, no. Fuck that. I will find you _myself_ and beat you out on the streets and drag your little ass to the trap if I have to but I'm gettin' that money back you hear? I changed your diapers and taught you how to walk and speak and I love you like my own son but I will punch you in yo' goddamn pretty face, you hear Jackson? I will beat you down next time you touch _anything_ else you ain't got no business putting your hands on. We clear?" Loretta warns evenly.

Jackson swallows and nods.

"Good," Loretta relaxes her shoulders and smiles, patting him on the cheek gently. "You gone on and sit down, I know you saw I made breakfast. Don't be rude and try to rush off. You ain't gotta be at school for another forty-five minutes. And give me that apple. That's my apple. How the hell you just gone eat my apple?"

Jackson snorts and rolls his eyes, hissing when he feels her slap a hand across the back of his head.

"Roll your eyes at me again. I'm gone treat you just like they was treating all those kids in that Hunger Games movie you and Ms. Lydia had me watchin' with ya'll last week," Loretta warns as she waits for him to sit down before setting a plate before him. She puts some toast and bacon on his plate.

"Thank you," Jackson says as he picks up his toast and nibbles on it. He's not all that hungry.

He idly watches Loretta shuffle around his parents, refilling their cups of coffee. Jackson chews slowly as he watches his father fuss into his Bluetooth while he stares at some file in one hand and the newspaper in the other. He's bitching at his assistant about how he specifically told her not to discuss a thing about the proceedings of the DeSotto case, seeing how things were still _pending_ and how he hopes dearly that she just did not just fuck things over for them. Jackson cocks his head as he swallows and can vaguely make out the headline on the paper.

He thinks about his father's assistant, Anastasia, and remembers her tan skin, her sparkling smile and those coffee brown eyes that were just a fraction darker than her thickly wavy tresses she always let flow around her small neck and shoulders. She's Armenian and a hellcat in the sack. Jackson would know because the summer he went with his dad to his office, the summer that just passed, was the first time he'd been introduced to her. They had actually been on their way to a ballgame but for whatever reason, they'd had to stop by the office on the way. Jackson had known then that they'd never make it to the game, and they hadn't. His dad always put his work above all things.

His dad had left him in the lobby outside of his office with an unnecessary promise that he'd only be just a few minutes. Jackson had just snatched up a magazine and started flipping through it before Anastasia came waltzing through, long legs, tight skirt and button down blouse that he could see right through. She had been carrying a silver coffee pot and the coffee grind and Jackson being the chivalrous gent that he was, hopped at the opportunity to help. She'd smiled and thanked him, guiding him to the conference room she was trying to prep for an upcoming meeting.

Jackson had introduced himself and Anastasia told him how handsome he was and how she was actually going to school for cosmetology and that this whole assistant thing was just to help her pay the bills until she was certified to open up her own salon. Jackson hadn't really cared all that much but he pretended to listen. He was just bored and Anastasia was attractive and she came easily when he lured her to the supply room and fucked her on top of the copy machine—twice. Not because he was upset with his father's empty promises, or because Anastasia was hot and easy. He'd just done it because he could. And when he had, he'd left, texting his father that he was catching a cab home and not to bother with the game, it didn't matter. He'd ended up inviting Lydia and Danny over and they all ended smoking a joint he'd bought off the Albanian transfer student from down the street and eating their way through the entire kitchen. Loretta hadn't been too happy about that, but she cleaned up, sent Lydia and Danny home safely and tucked Jackson in.

Of course she'd waited until the early morning to kick him off his bed, shove him into some jogging pants and drag him out into the streets. She'd climbed into his Porsche and made him run three miles, yelling threats at him through a mega phone he had _no idea_ how Loretta managed to get as she drove behind him. He just knew that after that day, and after throwing up at least four times during that three-mile run, he'd mentally vow never to get high again. Or at least wait until he had graduated and out of the house and out from under Loretta's strict and watchful eye.

Jackson sighs and sits back as he bounces his leg under the table as he glances over at his mother. She was reapplying lipstick as she texted away on her blackberry. She's probably either texting one of her many middle-aged friends or her latest beau. His mother has a pension for sleeping around with most of her students. Though she was a renowned Pilate's instructor, this side of California, she had a nasty habit of taking on private lessons with guys and girls alike—generally anyone who was stupid enough to pay the hefty sum of taking her classes. He wondered if his dad knew, or if he even cared.

His parents were the prime reason why he didn't believe in the whole 'love' thing. His mother was a promiscuous and his father might as well be married to his work. And Jackson—

Jackson was just caught in the middle.

"You had your last day of tryouts last night. How it go?" Loretta asks as she sets a glass before him and fills it with orange juice.

Jackson blinks a bit slowly, he can feel the vicodin starting to kick in. "Fine," he mutters and bounces his leg again as his shoulders loosen free of any tension. His head doesn't feel like its throbbing anymore, it feels more airy now—like a balloon.

"Boy you okay?" Loretta says, pressing warm hands to his cheeks and forehead. "You gettin' all flushed like you fixin' to get a fever."

Jackson bats her hands away and mumbles some kind of denial.

"Hm," Loretta hums doubtfully, staring down at him. "Did you make captain like you been hopin' to?"

"No," Jackson grunts and picks up his cup of orange juice. It splashes down his throat with a chill that makes his whole body break out in goose bumps.

"That's a shame. But it explains why you so upset," Loretta says, matter-of-factly.

"What happened now? Jackson's upset?" his father asks in a distracted way as he lowers his phone. "What could you possibly be upset about?" he continues with a frown.

"Lacrosse, Mr. Whittemore," Loretta supplies.

"Oh yeah," his dad says distantly, eyes still skimming the paper. "Thought you were over that. What, you had a game last night or something?"

"Not exactly," Jackson says with a humorless smirk as he fiddles with his half-eaten toast.

"Well its not exactly baseball or football, son," his father points out unhelpfully. "What's there to be upset about?"

"It's nothing," Jackson mutters with a frown. He doesn't want to talk about this with any of them.

"It ain't just nothin', boy. You work yourself to death over that game. You got every right to be mad over something you care about," Loretta says firmly as she squeezes his shoulder.

"It's just high school, honey," his mom chimes.

"I know that," Jackson says as he flicks his bacon.

"You know I wish I had your problems," his father scoffs. "I'd probably be able to sleep better at night."

"Just wait until you're my age. Then you'll laugh at yourself for getting worked up," his mother assures. "Take a page from the Dalia Lama like I do, sweetheart. He says, _all those thoughts, emotions, and mental events which reflect a negative or uncompassionate state of mind inevitably undermine our experience of inner peace._ "

"That doesn't really make sense," Jackson mumbles.

"Try getting a dispute between an adulterous husband and his bullheaded wife settled when both want the Malibu estates and seventy-five percent of their combined shares—then you can be upset," his father snorts as he folds his paper and finishes his coffee. "I have to run. Loretta see if you can't get my suit from the cleaners—the Armani one. Lay it out for me, I got a interview with that author fellow—the one that wants to ghost write my memoir."

"Sure thing, Mr. Whittemore," Loretta says politely.

"I'm on my way out too. Got a ten o'clock class and I'd better hurry if I want to beat the traffic," his mom says as she stands and drops a kiss to Jackson's forehead. "Oh, and Loretta, if you could, get some more of that spinach dip from that organic store just on the edge of the town. I just love the stuff. Oh and if you could set up an appointment with the some landscapers to see what they can do with our backyard. I want to throw a little bash for my husband's birthday, it's just around the corner. I was thinking we could go with the summer nights in Tokyo theme, even hire a few geishas or samurai or something fun—"

"Dad hates sushi," Jackson mutters as he shoves a strip of bacon in his mouth.

"Well—um," his mother pauses for a moment. "I guess we could go for a more New Orleans theme then. Jazz music, crawfish—you're from New Orleans aren't you Loretta? I should really leave all this up to you. I'm sure you know a lot more about ethnic food then I do." His mom chuckles.

Jackson cringes because though he might be a privileged white boy, he knows that saying things like that is in bad taste.

"Sure, Mrs. Whittemore," Loretta says flatly. "I suppose I'll just see what I can do."

"Great," his mom replies obliviously. "I'm off."

A few minutes later and two different sets of rumbling car engines exit the garage and down the drive. Loretta and Jackson are left alone.

"You should've punched her," Jackson comments lightly.

Loretta snorts. "Boy, if I punched every white person that ever said something offensive to me…" she trails off with a chuckle. "Never you mind that or them. I'm used to it. _You_ just better not never say nothing like that to me. I raised you right."

"You did," Jackson agrees, looking up at her with a smirk.

Loretta looks down at him and studies his face before snorting. "Boy you know you is a handsome little sucker," she says pinching his cheek. "Always did look like an angel. Poor girls don't got no chance when you come round. But at least I know better. Don't you go breakin' hearts."

"Too late," Jackson says, batting her hands away from his face. He flinches when she flicks him in his eye. "Ow, fuck!"

"Watch your mouth! And you stop diggin' in your momma's drug cabinet. You can fool them but you can't fool me. I know good and well what you look like doped up," Loretta reprimands. "I been tryin' to give you privacy but I see I'm gonna have to dig through your stuff for drugs—"

"I'm not doing drugs!" Jackson protests, horrified at the thought of Loretta poking around through his things. "I just have the one bottle. I'll put it back, I swear—just don't."

Loretta stares at him.

"I will, I swear," Jackson assures again. "Nothing but Tylenol and aspirin for me from now on."

Loretta scoffs. "Well—I'll believe it when I see it," she replies. "Now what did happen that's got you actin' a fool?"

"Some little shit stole my position," Jackson says unhappily. "He's a demon and he wants to fucking ruin my life."

"What's his name?"

"What?"

"I said what's his name?" Loretta repeats.

"Stiles Argent," Jackson mutters.

"Stiles. Now that's a new one," Loretta supposes.

"It's a stupid name."

Loretta rolls her eyes. "You need to find a new word, boy."

"Nope. I like that one just fine," Jackson replies and crosses his arms.

"Yeah, whatever you say brat," Loretta snorts. "What's this Stupid Stiles look like?"

"A demon. What does it matter?" Jackson huffs. "I didn't care to discuss his looks with Danny or Lydia and I sure as hell don't want to do it now."

"I'm not asking again," Loretta says, landing him with a look.

Jackson stares back defiantly.

Loretta crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow.

Jackson sighs. "He's just—gangly. Kinda goofy looking. Like he'd trip over his own feet every second of every day. And he's got freckles—mostly on his neck. And gold eyes. Like honey—it's weird," he says thoughtfully, stroking his thumb over his bottom lip. "And he's got a button nose. Really girly button nose. He's just looks like a cartoon character. Like Pinocchio or something—only after Pinocchio became a real boy. And he's got a pink mouth that just spews random shit all the time. It's irritating. I bet he wears lip-gloss, no one's lips can be that pink. And boy band hair. It's pathetic."

Loretta smirks.

"What?" Jackson says, eyeing her warily.

"Pinocchio used to be your favorite movie," she points out.

"So?" Jackson counters with a frown. He doesn't get what she's trying to say.

"Nothing. You'll figure it out on your own," Loretta says offhandedly. "Now gone and get out of here. You just playin' with your food anyway."

Jackson stands and tucks in his chair as Loretta starts clearing the table. He fishes for the keys in his coat pocket for a moment before he shoves his wayfarers back onto his face and throw his backpack over his shoulder. He doesn't touch his radio on the way to school but somehow he ends up humming _"When You Wish upon a Star"_. He cuts the song from his mind when he parks his car beside someone's atrocious jeep and curses Loretta for even getting him thinking about Pinocchio in the first place.

888

Jackson feels beautifully blank for most of the day, thanks to the vicodin. He's riding a calm wave through the majority of his classes, just up until lunch, when he reaches the inevitable peak and then crash lands. He's got his head buried into his sweaty palms and there is pain prickling at the back of his eyes. His stomach feels heavy, like he's swallowed a cup of cement and its just starting to solidify. Lydia's stabbing at her salad viciously, most likely pissed that he has been ignoring her since last night. He's got over fifty missed calls and text messages to attest to it. They're all just half-ass apologies that really aren't apologies—just disguised attempts at nagging him.

Danny's being unusually quiet. He must be thinking over something.

Jackson starts humming, hoping the vibrations of his own voice will shake the ache out of his skull.

Both Lydia and Danny, who are sitting directly across from him, stare at him questioningly. Jackson can't be fucked to give them any answers though. But he does stop humming, realizing how strange it is for him to be doing it in the first place.

Snow White appears out of nowhere and sets her tray beside his.

"Allison," Lydia chirps and blessedly ceases that grating stabbing noise. "To what do we owe this unexpected visit?"

Jackson warily looks up, half-expecting a pair of flailing arms and legs to be following behind her. When he doesn't see freckles or gold eyes, his shoulders relax a fraction in relief.

"Oh, uh," Snow White gives this embarrassed grin, cheeks dimpling in a way Jackson finds somewhat appealing. "I hope I'm not intruding or anything but um, well I didn't have anyone else to sit with this time around."

"Your brother…?" Danny starts and Jackson wishes he hadn't even.

"Is a little preoccupied at the moment," Snow White says, grin morphing into something amused and gentle. She cocks her head towards the other side of the cafeteria.

Jackson turns to look, against his better judgment, just as Lydia and Danny angle themselves to take a peek.

Goofy's grinning like a lovesick fool at McCall, who's sitting across from him. They aren't touching or anything, just talking, tossing fries at each other and smiling at one another. Jackson doesn't see the point of them keeping it PG13 since its clear to anyone with eyes that all they want to do is climb all over each other. Of course Jackson isn't complaining at this 1950's display of courtship. He'd rather this than the alternative. Still…it _is_ disgustingly sappy.

McCall reaches forward, ducking his head with a small smile as he places his hand on top of Goofy's, thumb sliding over Goofy's pale knuckles in a very tenderly intimate gesture.

Jackson turns away with a scowl and his stomach turns. The needling pain in his brain is getting worse. He glares down at his own knuckles and looks towards the windows of the cafeteria as he unconsciously rubs at them.

"When did _that_ happen?" Lydia asks curiously, and not without a disappointed frown.

Jackson feels his scowl deepen.

"Well nothing is official yet. I think they're just talking, you know—the baby stages," Snow White supposes. "Stiles told me Scott asked him to go with him to your party this Friday."

"Cute," Lydia mutters and flicks her strawberry blonde curls over her shoulder with a sniff.

"I wont lie, I'm jealous," Danny admits as he stares over at them both. "Stiles seems like a good catch. Scott's lucky. But all the best to them, it's nice."

Jackson rolls his eyes. "You want know what else is nice?" He snatches Lydia's fork from her hand. "Stabbing myself in the eye with this fork."

Snow White frowns at him, but he ignores her.

Danny gives him a flat look. "Don't be a dick, Jackson."

"Don't be such a thirteen year old girl then," Jackson counters.

Danny glares.

Jackson goes back to trying to press his face through the palm of his hands.

"Don't mind him, it's his time of the month," Lydia says to both Danny and Snow White. "By the way, Allison, this is Danny. Danny, Allison."

"We share a last period I think," Snow White says. "English?"

"Oh yeah. Rozansky," Danny says. "He's a good bore isn't he?"

Snow White laughs. "Well, his passion for Shakespeare keeps me interested enough," she admits. She says something but Jackson doesn't catch it because he's drifting off.

He doesn't exactly remember falling asleep, but he does. Danny gently shakes him awake sometime after the first bell rings, signaling the end of lunch. He swats Danny away with a groggy groan and stands, cracking his neck as he does so. Danny teases him about the red handprints on his perfect cheekbones. Jackson gives him the middle finger in return as they march out of the lunchroom into the hall together.

"So are we still on for that thing we talked about?" Danny asks carefully. "I need to know so I can know what to say to Tom. He's getting antsy about making our fake id's. He's meeting up with me after school. What should I be telling him?"

"Tell him to go ahead with it. Pay my way and I'll give it back to you," Jackson promises, thumping the back of his hand to Danny's chest.

"Don't do that," Danny says with a grin.

"What?" Jackson questions as he rubs at his bottom lip with his thumb.

"Act like this isn't a big deal," Danny elaborates.

"That's because it's not," Jackson says with a snort.

"But it is," Danny argues. "Jackson—I really appreciate you doing this for me though," he says sincerely enough.

"Don't get mushy on me," Jackson playfully warns. "It's whatever. You need a cover, I'll cover for you. I'll sulk off to L.A. or whatever. Maybe I'll bring Lydia but—I don't know. Things aren't feeling right with her—she's pissing me off. But anyway, if you want to go off to fucking wine county with some random stud you met online like its internet fate then that's your business."

"He's not a random anything. Peter's the real deal," Danny protests. "And he understands me and I understands him. Why is that so hard to process?"

Jackson just shrugs. "Whatever. Just don't go get murder-raped. It'll look bad on me," he says.

"Oh sure. Think of how it'll affect _you_ if _I_ die. You're a real friend," Danny drawls sarcastically.

Jackson just smirks. "What can I say? I come first," he says, adding a suggestive wink on the end of that.

"Oh I know that already. Lydia tells me plenty," Danny admits with a bark of laughter. "It's a fantastic thing that you're not my type."

Jackson's smirk falls into a scowl. "I'm everyone's type," he argues.

"And she's only pissing you off just to get your attention. I admit her methods have been extreme," Danny continues, ignoring his words completely. "But you have been pretty lackadaisical lately. Getting you to be here, I mean all the way here," he says pointing to his temple. "It's like trying to get a sloth to roll over. It's a bit worrying, Jackson."

"Yeah, well, _don't_ worry about it," Jackson says, swallowing back his surprise that either of them have noticed his behavior.

Danny gives him this undecipherable look. "You know—it's not so surprising that the people who've known you for years would notice a change in your behavior. You'd notice if I went all emo. We may not say anything outright, but we see you. At the end of the day, as annoying as we may be to you or you bitchy to us, we're all still friends."

"Is that so?" Jackson murmurs, sniffing casually and clearing his throat. He not sure of what else to say so he goes with a shrug instead.

Danny smiles at him fondly, like he can see right through him. "Look I better head to class. Have fun in biology," he says with a wave and disappears into the crowd.

Jackson just snorts and heads to class himself. His good mood sours when he catches sight of Goofy and McCall acting all chummy with each other in the hall. He stomps past them and two doors down into his biology class. He skulks to the back of the room, suddenly reminded of his everlasting migraine. He dumps his bag to the ground and plops down on his stool as he rubs at his aching temples. He doesn't notice Blondie saddle up beside him.

"So, Jackson," Blondie starts, tugging on the hem of that stupid grey sweatshirt she always wears.

"Not in the mood, Blondie," Jackson growls.

"Name's Erica," Blondie corrects. "This isn't grammar school anymore. What? You plan on shoving me into a milk cart again?"

"Funny," Jackson mutters and glares at her. "Fine. _Reyes._ What do you want?"

Reyes rolls her eyes. "You're hopelessly stubborn. That's going to come back and bite you in the ass someday. But enough about your future love life—I just came to ask if you wanted to be science partners. Everyone else knows everyone else and I'm less fond of them as they are of me. Your just about the only person I can tolerate."

"Flattering," Jackson says flatly.

"I know," Reyes agrees with a smirk. She drags her stool closer and sits on top. Then she proceeds to pull out a notebook and pen, neatly scribbling the date in one corner.

Jackson studies her quietly out the corner of his eye. He knows all too well what she'd meant by people not being fond of her. For as long as he could remember, there were an infinite number of things that could be said about Blondie. Some called her a witch. Some called her psychic. Most called her crazy. Jackson couldn't say for sure about any of those labels, but he did know something was off about her, and she had an edge to her that said she knew more than a person should know about certain things.

"That can get dangerous you know," Reyes says airily as she starts drawing half moons down the side of her page.

Jackson frowns. "What?"

"Trying to figure me out," Reyes clarify, taking a moment to glance over at him with a grin. "Don't try to figure me out."

"Don't flatter yourself Blondie," Jackson denies.

Reyes just goes back to her drawing but her grin never leaves, and that says enough.

Mr. Kindle strides in the room with a stack of paper. He hands it to the first table and instructs them to take them and pass them on. "Alright," he sighs, taking a moment to yawn into his fist as he looks at the handouts that are being spread across the room.

As far as teachers go, Jackson thinks Mr. Kindle is the one he can tolerate the most.

"Before winter break, we vaguely touched on genetics. We looked at the blue prints right? We talked about cellular structures and the way they function and what genes have to do with the terms 'dominant' and 'recessive'," Mr. Kindle says. "Now I want to spend the next few weeks looking on the outside of that. It's time to study the physical manifestation of that. What better way to do that than to delve into family genetics? So look at the top of the worksheet and Gina, go ahead and read that small paragraph."

Jackson glances at Blondie, who's drumming the end of her pen against her paper and looking up at the ceiling like she's bored. He frowns before looking down at his handouts.

"Our genes determine our physical appearance," Gina reads finally. "Our personality, how our body functions, and other characteristics that make each person unique. Each of us inherits from our parents as many as 35,000 different genes."

"Alright, you can stop right there. Thank you," Mr. Kindle cuts in. "Now—genes are passed down from generation to generation, medical conditions and diseases, or the increased risk for disease, tend to run in families due to gene abnormalities. We aren't focusing on that, alright? That's something you'll delve into when you're in college. What I want to do, and referring to the three handouts before you—what I want to do is do a little family genetic scavenger hunt."

Jackson shuffles his paper around with a frown, already bored with the assignment.

"The first handout, you'll note the diagram that has three faces. The top two faces will be your parents. The bottom face is yours. Find some pictures of you and your mom and your dad—study them and narrow down the exact physical traits that you think you have inherited from your parents. Then on the next two handouts, which are identical to the first, I want you to do the same with your parents," Mr. Kindle says.

"Do we like stare at them or—" some random student asks with a laugh. The rest of the class follows. "I mean cause I'm just wondering if we're supposed to like stand all in our parents face and be like, " _Hold still, this is for science_." or whatever." The class laughs again.

Jackson rolls his eyes.

"You could, but I advise you to hunt down some pictures. It'll be easier. Get some of grandma and grandpa too while your at it. Label these face diagrams. If your dad has a big nose and you see, hey, I have a big nose too, put that right across where the nose is," Mr. Kindle explains. "If your mother has big ears and you see grandma has big ears and hey, you do too, put that down. We want to track these things and by doing so, you'll see what the more dominant physical traits are and what the recessive traits are. You're going to be playing third generation, which will ultimately help you to determine what those recessive and dominate physical traits are. Understood?"

Waves of apprehensive murmurs fill the room.

Mr. Kindle chuckles. "Come on guys, easiest thing I have assigned, and I'm even willing to give you until Friday to complete it," he points out. "Now, in the mean time, let's just see what Bill Nye has to say about genes. Bryan hit the lights for me," he says as he rounds his desk and pulls down the overhead screen.

Jackson thinks, _No thank you._

He shoves the handouts in a folder and puts the folder in his backpack before he lowers his forehead to the cool surface of the desk. The lights go off and the projector hanging from the ceiling flickers to life. That annoying Bill Nye theme song comes on but all Jackson can pay attention to is the red smear on the edge of his black converse and the scraping grind of Blondie's ballpoint pen scratching against her notebook paper.

888

Jackson avoids Lydia and goes straight home. He just doesn't want to deal with her right now. He knows the message is clear when she doesn't call or text him. When he parks his Porsche beside his mailbox and jingles his keys as he makes his way up the drive, he toys with the idea of just breaking things off with her. He puts the thought on the backburner in his mind as he keys open his front door. He slams the door shut behind him, just to see if anyone will react and when there is none, he knows that no one is home.

No surprises there.

Loretta's even absent, she would have shouted something about his appalling behavior. She must be out running errands for his parents in that shitty dark blue Buick she calls a car. He doesn't know why she doesn't get something a little more tasteful—he knows his parents pay Loretta handsomely, always has. Half of it because she's the help and the other half because she plays nanny to Jackson most of the time.

Jackson sighs and treks up to his room, dropping his backpack to his carpeted floor and shrugging out of his leather jacket. He yanks off the scarf and folds it neatly, putting it right back where he'd found it in the first place. If it were one thing that most people wouldn't really think to guess about him, it would be the fact that he was OCD when it came to cleaning and that he kept his room immaculately neat.

 _A messy boy keeps a messy mind,_ Loretta would always say in his youth. He'd taken what she said, as he did often at that age, to heart. He's always had a cluttered mind, no point in making it worse.

Jackson cracks his neck as he goes to hang up his jacket in his walk-in closet. After he's got that stowed away, he snatches up his bag on the way out the door and down the steps and into the living room. He drops his backpack near the edge of the glass coffee table and picks up a remote, pressing a few buttons that make the blinds fall down over the glass window walls. He drops that remote and picks up another, turning on the sound system and the flat screen TV.

He walks around the table to the left where there are bookshelves lined with hundreds upon hundreds of DVDs, all in alphabetical order thanks to Jackson, and goes to the 'P' section. He tugs _Pinocchio_ free and snaps it open, taking out the silver disk and inserting it into one of the PlayStations he keeps in the front room on the entertainment stand at the bottom of the flat screen. His PlayStation whirs to life with an orchestra type sound and swishes and clicks. He grabs one of his controllers and uses his thumb to get the DVD playing. When the movie comes to life on the screen he turns away and tosses the controller onto the couch and grabs the remote that controls the lighting. When it's dim enough in the house, he treks over to the kitchen and ruffles through the cabinets for popcorn and a bowl to put it in. While it cooks, he goes around the corner and into his mother's office to look for some photo albums.

Five minutes later, he's plopping down on his couch, arms juggling a bowl of popcorn and a stack of three photo albums. He presses play when the DVD reaches the main menu. He grabs a handful of popcorn and jams it in his mouth as he unzips his backpack and dumps all the contents on the other side of him before he rearranges it all neatly. He does his homework, starting with the most difficult and working down into the least difficult. Which meant he started his geometry assignments, working into US history, then Economics, into English and finally Biology.

By the time he was spreading his Biology handouts on the coffee table, Pinocchio was well into the whale scene. He pauses for a moment to watch Pinocchio look pitifully up at his maker while Geppetto took in his donkey ears and tail. Jackson snorts and returns his gaze down to his lap, where there is a photo album cracked open. He decides to work on his parents and grandparents' diagram. First studying pictures of his mother and her parents, filling and labeling the physical traits on that worksheet. Then he does the same for his father. When his parents' diagram are done and accounted for he moves to his own.

He flicks through his photo album to the sound of sad music, signaling the untimely death of Pinocchio. His frowns deepens as he studies his pictures, some dating back to when he was about six months old and some that are as current as a year ago. Something like panic gnaws at his insides, burning a trail of questions through his mind and making him feel lightheaded. There are a lot of things that are wrong here, but the most obvious thing is that, one, all his pictures start from when he was six months. And two, his physical appearance is nowhere near similar to that of his parents or even his grandparents.

There is a moment when he just sits there, and thinks of nothing, the shock of it all paralyzing him. He can't help but to wonder how he never noticed this all before.

This is how Loretta finds him, staring blankly at the screen of the TV, the music of the main menu on the DVD playing at a continuous loop under a pile of photo albums. "Boy…what the hell is wrong with you?" she asks, unable to mask the concern in her voice.

Jackson blinks and stares at her. He says, "When did they hire you?"

Loretta frowns in confusion.

"My parents. When did they hire you?" Jackson clarifies.

"Little after you came along," Loretta admits carefully.

Jackson smirks humorlessly and stands, not caring that the photo albums crash onto the ground around his feet. "Did you know? Did they tell you?" he asks.

"Tell me what? Boy, you ain't making any sense," Loretta says impatiently.

"That I was adopted!" Jackson snaps, and feels queasy when she looks at him with surprise and guilt. "God," he croaks as his hands shake. "So it is true."

Loretta doesn't say anything.

Jackson curses and kicks at the coffee table.

"I—think you better wait till your mom and dad get home," Loretta says quietly. "This somethin' ya'll oughta discuss together. I call them—tell them to come home."

Jackson feels absolutely sick. "Don't bother," he rasps, turning away quickly before she can see how red-rimmed his eyes are becoming. He yanks his car keys from his pocket and storms out the front door and down the drive to his Porsche. He climbs in, starts the engine and drives without really knowing where he's going.

Somehow he ends up at the playground. It's dark out and cold, so it's empty. He parks the car with a sigh, sniffs and dries his cheeks, unaware that they'd been wet in the first place. He'd been so angry that he'd barely noticed. He climbs out his car, pockets his keys and shivers against the cold air, silently berating himself for not grabbing a jacket. He shoves his hands under his armpits and treks over to the swing set, sitting on a swing that's directly in the middle. He sniffs again and takes a moment to look at the jungle gym, to the sand box, over to the teeter tot, past the monkey bars and finally off into the trees. The wind blows, rustling all the leaves and making each empty swing rattle and squeak.

"Not exactly your scene is it?" a voice says from behind him, causing him to jump.

Jackson turns his head to see Blondie approach him with a smirk on her face. He scowls and turns away. "Fuck off, Blondie. I'm not in the mood," he warns, curling his fingers toward his palm. He shivers.

"Careful now, Jackson," Blondie teases as she edges closer. "Keep on being a little shit and you wont get any," she warns, revealing a six pack of beer.

Jackson's mouth shrivels but he doesn't say a thing.

"Good boy," Blondie chuckles, walking over and chucking a pink-knit sweater at him. "Put that on, I know your cold."

"What the hell is this," Jackson says, turning the horrid pepto bismol colored sweater to and fro in his hands. He winces when he sees the pictures of a basket full of kittens.

"You ask a dumb question and I'll be tempted to give you a dumb answer," Blondie merely says, making herself at home on the swing just to the left of his. She tugs a can of beer free and offers it to him before setting the rest at her feet. "You either freeze or you put it on. I promise no one else is going to come around and I swear I wont take anything but a mental picture."

Jackson curses silently but he pulls it on with minimal fussing and snatches the can of beer out of Blondie's hand. He pops the cap open and takes a deep swallow. He's almost tempted to ask why she would even be carrying around an extra sweater but he forgoes it in favor of taking another deep swallow.

"Oh you're welcome," Blondie says with that amused grin, pulling out a packet of cigarettes and hitting the butt of it against the end of her palm. She then fishes one free and shoves it between her chapped lips. "Do you even remember why you shoved me into that milk cart?" she asks, cupping her hand over her green lighter as she attempts to light her cigarette. After the second try she's met with success.

Jackson just grunts and takes another swig from his beer.

"You got mad that I took that last pudding cup. You did so love your pudding cups," Blondie flicks her cigarette and lifts it to her mouth again. "You called me a trailer trash reject. So I flipped you off and called you a dumpster child and said that your mother was a crack-whore and after you were born she threw you in the dumpster," she says as she sighs out a breath of grey smoke. "Then you shoved me into the milk cart making me break my wrist before Isaac broke your nose."

Jackson squeezes the can and it crackles under his white-knuckled grip. He's beginning to remember that day all too well.

"Kids can be mean huh?" Blondie comments airily as she sucks on her cigarette, exhaling with a pleasured sigh. "Don't worry. I don't hold it against you."

Jackson chugs the rest of his beer before he stands and chucks the can out into the distance. "Yeah, well," he tucks his hands in his pockets. "Maybe you should. Turns out you were right."

Blondie doesn't say anything for a while. Then, she does, "I was being petty, Jackson. Just pen it down as the bitter words of a bitter child. Though, yeah, you were no better."

Jackson frowns and glances up at the night sky. "Why even bring that up?" he asks quietly. "Why are you here?"

"Coincidence mostly. I always come here when I feel like shit, which is practically every night. I don't exactly have a posh home and posh family to go back to," Blondie admits, throwing her cigarette down and grinding it under the bottom of her heel. She tugs out another and lights it.

"Whatever," Jackson mutters. He takes a moment to eye her. "Are you really psychic? I mean, can you really tell all that future shit?" He's not sure why he's asking, what's making him ask.

"Why? Feeling uncertain?" Blondie counters, raising an eyebrow with an amused grin, blowing smoke out the side of her mouth. "Didn't I tell you not to try and figure me out?"

"A simple yes or no wouldn't kill you, Blondie," Jackson snaps.

"Maybe it would," she retorts with a laugh. "Rephrase your question."

Jackson lets out a longsuffering sigh. "Can you tell people about their future?"

"Sure, Jackson—for the right price, and only what I'm able to see, only what they can bare to accept," Blondie finally admits and stands, looking down at the watch on her wrist. "Well, I should get going. Not that this hasn't been fun—I've got a body to find. Well—half of a body."

Jackson frowns at her.

"Drive safely," Blondie says, clapping a hand over his shoulder before blowing smoke in his face.

Jackson scowls and watches as she snatches up the rest of the beer, tugging one free while she swaggers over to the woods. She tugs down the hem of her grey sweatshirt and disappears into the trees.

Jackson pulls his hands free from his pockets and flexes his fingers before heading towards his car. That had to be, without a doubt, one of the weirdest conversations he's ever had.

He climbs in his car and circles back home, stopping a block down to yank off the horrid pepto bismol sweater and tossing it out the window. He parks at the edge of the drive when he arrives home and takes a few minutes to sit in silence. He's not sure what he's going to do, but he knows that this is the last fucking straw. He'd already been feeling down and unsure about everything. This was the last thing he needed—and for them to not tell him. To keep him the dark.

For fucks' sake! He'd found out through his fucking biology homework!

Jackson growls and punches the ceiling of his car. He fumbles for his keys and climbs out, slamming the door shut as he stomps up the drive. The house is lit completely and he knows without knowing that his parents (or whoever they are) are home. He pauses for a moment and takes a deep breath, spending time to school his expression.

Life's decided to treat him like a fucking joke, so he's going to go right ahead and join in on it.

 _I can never be happy after this,_ Jackson thinks. _Things will never be the same. So what's the point of it all?_

Jackson opens the door and shuts it behind himself, walking towards the living room with a blank expression, where his pare—

No.

Where Jeremy and Diana are waiting.

Jackson stops right behind the couch, keeping it as a separation between them, and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans as he waits expectantly.

"Honey," Diana starts. "Loretta has informed us that you may have made a—shocking discovery," she says carefully.

Jackson just looks at her.

"We want you to know that we were planning on telling you, honestly, but we were waiting for the right time," Diana continues. "This doesn't have to change a thing."

"We still love you as if you really were our own," Jeremy adds. "We've raised and protected and cared for you."

"Right. So there's no reason to make a fuss about all this. Think of your adoption as a minor setback," Diana chirps, resting her hand on Jeremy's arm as they stand beside one another like a united front.

"There's really no need to make this into anything more that what it is," Jeremy says. "We're happy—you're happy. You've got more than anyone in your position could ever hope for in a family and we're happy to give all this to you."

"So you being unwanted really turned out to be a good thing," Diana says sincerely.

Jackson looks back and forth between them both. There's no doubt about it. They _actually_ believe the things they are saying. He smiles coldly. "I'm not mad," he lies.

Jeremy and Diana blink at him in surprise.

"It's no big deal," Jackson continues. "I was just shocked, that's all. Let's just forget about it."

"Oh—okay," Diana says with a little uncertainty. "Honey, you sure? Don't just say those things for our benefit."

"Yes, Jackson. If you're really bothered, we'll be more than happy to pay someone to listen as you talk it all out. You name it, no matter the cost," Jeremy assures.

"Ah, I know this great therapist! Straight out of Harvard and already advising some of the biggest names in entertainment—I believe his name is Connor, Connelly. You know my student Sheila would know," Diana rambles. "I could ask—"

"It's fine," Jackson interjects and looks at her firmly. "Really. Let's just forget about it."

Diana closes her mouth and nods with a smile. "Well we were on our way out and we were thinking that we could all take a little visit to that new Thai place that opened up. Maybe catch a movie? Have a real family night."

"Your mother pointed out that we haven't really spent the time to stay in each other's company. Me with my cases and your mother with her classes," Jeremy says as he loosens his tie.

"I'll pass. I'm tired," Jackson says and reigns in the urge to tell them that they can both go fuck themselves and each other for once. He doesn't. "It's a school night anyway." He turns and treks towards the stairs.

"Goodnight, Jackson," Jeremy calls.

"We love you, honey," Diana adds.

Jackson says nothing in response. He tucks himself away in his room and sits at his desk before his computer. He shakes his mouse until the screen comes to life and goes into his email account.

It's time for him to call in another favor from Tom.

888

Jackson wakes up earlier then he usually does. He goes through the motions of showering, getting dressed, and gathering his homework. He swipes his keys from off his desk and pockets them before sliding into the hall quietly. He carefully walks to his fathe—to _Jeremy's_ office and eases inside, shutting the door behind him. He rounds Jeremy's desk and drops to his knees, feeling the underside until he comes into contact with the key Jeremy keeps taped to the underside of the desk. He tugs it free and shrugs off his backpack, sliding the key to the bottom drawer of the desk and tugging it open.

Jackson tongues the back of his teeth as he reaches in and pulls out the black, sleek security deposit box Jeremy keeps inside. He uses the same key that he used to open the drawer to open the box. He mentally rolls his eyes at Jeremy's lack of creativity. If they'd been robbed, the thieves would have no problem ransacking the place. But that wasn't important. Jackson smirks as he grabs three sets of envelopes, one filled with twenties, one filled with fifties and the last one filled with hundreds. He stuffs them all in his backpack and takes a quick moment to nick the stack of credit cards tied together with a rubber band and pockets them.

Jackson knew that this was all Jeremy's emergency cash, and the credit cards were connected to accounts that he never checked. He had two main accounts that he kept track of so Jackson wasn't worried he'd be found out. He snaps the lid on the security box shut and slides it back into the drawer. He closes and locks the drawer before returning the key to its designated hiding place. He stands to his feet, swiping his backpack off the floor and exits Jeremy's office.

He slips out of the house unnoticed and down the drive to his car. He slides into his Porsche with a self-satisfied smirk and whips down the road towards his school. The student parking lot is partially empty compared to the faculty lot. He pulls up beside a dark green Dodge Durango and turns off his ignition. He climbs out just as Tom does the same. Tom's wearing a red hoodie that looks like blood against his black skin and it's clashing with the yellow and purple Laker's snapback he's got backwards on his head.

Outside of Danny, Tom was the most tech savvy and a skilled document forger this side of Beacon Hills. He made a reputation for himself when he moved down here from Chicago three years ago and started stacking up on money for pushing fake ids and doing background checks for shady business types. He's also done well with securing a spot on the Lacrosse team and he could be a mouthy asshole when you gave him the chance. But all in all, he was all right by Jackson's standards.

Tom sniffs and spits off to the side. The dark skinned boy grins tiredly, holding up a thick manila folder with dark bags under his eyes. "Dude, you owe me big time. I fucking stayed up all night, not only doing yours and fucking Danny's fake ids but for this extra little dirt digging and shit," he complains.

Jackson rolls his eyes, fishes for one of the cash envelopes in his backpack, the one full of twenties, and shoves it into Tom's chest. "I think that should more than compensate," he says.

"Yeah, yeah. Was fun though," Tom says with a smirk as he peers in the envelope. "Fuck yeah. This is good." He laughs and puts the envelope in his back pocket. "But as I was saying, it was fun. Haven't stuck my fingers into government files in a minute, know what I'm saying? All those new security locks and firewalls were actually kind of cute. Took that bitch a minute to open up but I got her own her back saying my name," he says smugly. "You aight though? Being tossed through the system ain't easy, trust me, I know. Went through six foster homes before I met one that could deal with my shit." Tom shrugs.

"I'm not really in the mood to talk about my feelings if it's all the same to you," Jackson says as he opens up the passenger side of his door and throws the manila envelope down on the seat.

"Man, fuck you Jackson. I'm not saying come cry on my shoulder, you can do that shit on your own. I'm just asking," Tom says, shoving at Jackson with halfhearted seriousness. "Us orphans got to stick together, know what I mean?"

"Whatever," Jackson says with a raised eyebrow.

"So what you gone do then?" Tom asks, crossing his arms and cocking his head back.

Jackson shrugs, even though he knows good and well what he plans to do. "What would you do?" he counters.

Tom sighs through his teeth and leans back against his truck. "Shit. I'd probably fucking go find the bitches just to see if they had some money to they name that I could claim, know what I mean? But that's just me," he says with a shrug. "But that's just if I was white boy like you. I know where my moms is, know what I mean? Ain't nowhere where I wanna be, so I left that shit alone years ago. I'm happy now, so it's whatever for me. I just know that _when_ and _if_ I have some shorties of my own I ain't go do them like I was done, know what I mean?"

Jackson nods, but he doesn't think he'll ever have kids. He's never really wanted them before all this happened and nothing's changed in that aspect.

"Aight, well," Tom says as he stretches and fiddles with his hat before putting it back in it's original position. "I better move it along cause I got some things to do before that bell rings. You know, more clients and what not. Oh, and before I forget…" He reaches into the pocket of his red hood and pulls out two fake ids. "For you and Dan-Dan. Just tell him I'm gonna hit him up later cause you gave me more than enough to cover the expenses. And I may do morally questionable things but I ain't no thief—I'mma give him his money back."

"Yeah, I'll let him know when I see him," Jackson says and takes them, putting his away in his wallet and pocketing Danny's.

"Pleasure doing business," Tom says, throwing a peace sign to the side and pulling out his phone.

Jackson doesn't say anything, he just locks his car and heads toward the locker room to change. It's still early enough that he could get in a little Lacrosse practice before school starts—just so that he could clear his head for the day ahead.

"Yo' Jackson!" Tom calls.

Jackson pauses but doesn't turn around.

"You know I'm telling everyone right?" Tom asks, voice drenched with humor.

Jackson shrugs but he smirks a little. He honestly didn't care—it would work right into his favor, and to be honest, he'd been somewhat counting on it. Tom was also a gossip, and everyone knew that, including Jackson. He straightens his shoulders into a confident straight line and continues on.

Things might just go perfectly as planned.

888

By lunch, rumors about Jackson's adoption had spread like wildfire. There was a lot of whispering and glances his way. He kept his expressions carefully schooled, not too happy but not too sad, and contained the urge to correct some of the gossip that obviously had been exaggerated. He didn't let himself get worked up about it because this is what he wanted. It was all for the greater good.

Though all this meant was that Danny and Lydia had a gang of questions lined up for him when they sat down for lunch.

"So it's true," Danny exclaims with widened eyes.

"What the fuck, Jackson!" Lydia hisses and leans forward so she can lower her voice. "Everybody and their grandmother's dog knows and you don't even say anything to us."

"I just did," Jackson says casually.

Danny and Lydia stare at him like he's someone they don't even know.

"Doesn't matter anyway," Jackson lies with a shrug and takes a hearty bite of his green apple.

"Doesn't matte— _Jackson_ ," Lydia reaches forward and cups her hand over his free one. "This is a _big deal_. How can you say it doesn't matter?"

"Maybe because it doesn't," Jackson counters and pulls his hand away from hers.

"So—you're just…fine with it?" Danny asks carefully, eyeing him.

"Yup," Jackson chirps and takes another bite of his apple. "This doesn't change anything. We're still doing what we planned," he lies.

Danny looks unsure but he doesn't press the issue.

Lydia looks far from ready to drop the subject.

It doesn't matter because the school speakers blare to life and says, " _Can Jackson Whittemore please come to the principal's office. Jackson Whittemore to the principal's office. Thank you._ "

Jackson smirks and rises from his seat. "Looks like I'm needed elsewhere," he announces with another bite of his apple and a quick wink. As he exits the cafeteria, an array of whispers tremor almost throughout the whole school.

Jackson strides into the main office and lets the secretary lead him back towards the principal's office. He has this brief thought where he wonders what happened to Nikki. The last time he was in here, she had been manning the front desk.

"Ah, yes, Mr. Whittemore. Please come in and have a seat," Principal Chadwick says, peering up at Jackson with his hand cupping over the receiver of his phone. "Karl, I'll call you back in a few."

Jackson treks over to a chair and sits just as the secretary excuses herself and shuts the door behind her.

Principal Chadwick sighs and folds his hands over his desk. "I'm sure you have an idea of why I called you," he says.

"No sir, I can say I don't," Jackson lies and leans back in his seat.

Principal Chadwick doesn't look so convinced, but he continues nonetheless, "I, as most of the school, have gotten wind to a bit of disturbing news. About you and your—parentage."

"You mean you heard that I was adopted," Jackson clarifies flatly.

"Ah, yes," Principal Chadwick looks embarrassed and uncomfortable. "That. Well—these types of situations can affect an individual heavily. I would hate to see your grades suffer and wanted to offer you the opportunity to seek our guidance counselor who would at anytime be readily available should you have the need to talk."

"That's nice to know," Jackson says blankly.

"You're a bright kid, Mr. Whittemore. Your academic record more than speaks to that," Principal Chadwick says. "Now, I've said my part. Is there anything you would like to say?"

"Actually," Jackson says as he sits up. "I was hoping we'd get a chance to speak to one another. You see Principal Chadwick, I've discussed it with my adoptive parents and we've decided the best thing for me right now would be to take a little time for myself, just so that I can wrap my head around things. It is a big thing to swallow."

"I see," Principal Chadwick says slowly.

"There's actually this retreat over in Santa Monica that specializes in these particular—situations. I'm only bringing this up in hopes that you'd be able to help me petition my teachers about my work. Maybe they could email me all my assignments and lesson plans. That way I don't fall behind," Jackson says.

Principal Chadwick doesn't look to keen on the idea. "Just how long would you be absent, Mr. Whittemore?"

"Two, maybe three weeks. Give or take a month or so. It's hard to say with these retreats," Jackson answers with a shrug. "But in the long haul, I see it as a very necessary investment. For my—personal health."

Principal Chadwick looks as if he's mulling it over until he says, "I wouldn't normally agree, but in light of things, I'll make this exception. I'll still be contacting your parents to confirm things, as a precautionary. And I'll wrangle your teachers together to notify them of things and discuss options for your work."

Jackson nods.

"I suppose that's all. Again, if you should need it, we have a guidance counselor readily available at anytime during school hours," Principal Chadwick reminds. He picks up his phone and punches in a few numbers. "You may leave."

Jackson does without a word. He smirks on his way out into the halls and dumps his half-eaten apple in the nearest trash barrel.

888

Jeremy and Diana confront him when he gets home from school. He expects it, welcomes it. It's a bit amusing how unsure they seem around him now, treating him like some kind of squeamish animal. The whole conversation isn't all that significant, but they basically ask him not to keep them in the dark about any traveling plans he may have. They don't mind if he wants to skulk off to Santa Monica for a month or even half a year—they just want to be notified as so not to look like belligerent guardians. Jackson knew they wouldn't make a fuss. They usually let him do whatever he wants, why would this time be different?

His plans are halfway to being accomplished.

The rest of the week flows accordingly without incident. Whispers and speculations still follow him, and he still gets looks. Lydia still gets on his case and Danny still watches him carefully. Snow White converses with them from time to time and if things were different, Jackson would have taken the time to seduce her into his bed like he wanted to. But seeing as he's on a specifically important schedule, he doesn't dwell on it.

Friday rolls in and Lydia forgoes her insistent nagging to cluck around like a headless chicken, gathering and setting things in order for her party that night. To kill time, he goes with Danny to the mall to catch a movie after school. From time to time, he and Danny will go to the movies, pay for one and when that one is done they'll sneak into at least three or four others. By the time the third movie they've snuck into ends, it's time to get ready for Lydia's party. Jackson grabs some clothes from his house and rides with Danny to his, so they can get ready and leave together.

There's only a handful of people there when Jackson and Danny arrive. Jackson makes himself useful by tucking away in the kitchen and downing a bottle of whiskey. He feels thoroughly tipsy by the time the crowd expands exponentially. He's leaning back against the kitchen sink as he works open the vodka bottle he ' _bought_ ' for the party. Its just about the same time that Lydia corners him as the music from the DJ booth set up in the back blares to life, blessedly drowning out Lydia's nagging.

Jackson blinks at her wordlessly, watching her glossy lips purse, stretching in, out and around words loaded with frustration and concern. He lifts the bottle to his mouth and swallows, reveling in the burn that slides over his tongue, to the back of his throat and down to his empty stomach.

Lydia hisses something and grabs his free hand, yanking him through the swaying crowd and out back near the DJ booth. That horrid Justin Bieber song begins to play, something about a boyfriend, and Jackson winces as it stabs into his ears. Lydia's babbling again, arms crossed and a sharp glare in her green eyes that's solely focused on him. He laughs, he doesn't know why but it makes Lydia snatch the vodka from him when he goes to take another drink.

He sighs and looks away, eyes catching the sight of Goofy and McCall acting all chummy next to the refreshment table. He scowls and turns back to Lydia with a growl, tugging her close and slamming his lips onto her plump ones. Lydia squeaks in surprise but she goes a bit limp in his arms when he tongues his way inside of her mouth. Her hands fumble around before clasping on his shoulders and he presses her into the brick wall behind her. There's a brief moment when he thinks about Goofy and his infuriated gold eyes and his cock twitches. He pauses with a frown but Lydia mewls, reaching between them and palms at his dick through his jeans.

Jackson pulls back and says, "Bedroom."

Lydia's eyes flutters as she bites her bottom lip and nods quickly. She laces their fingers together and leads him into the house again, up the stairs and into her room. He shoves her down on the bed and rips her underwear off as he unbuttons and unzips himself. He fucks her until she screams, comes twice and passes out. He leaves her there and does his pants up again, still hard and unsatisfied—still thoroughly tipsy and confused.

Maybe he's drunken too much. Everything feels muddled inside his head.

He stumbles out of her room, down the steps and out the front door where nothing but the cold night air waits for him. He rubs at his eyes and tries to get his head together. He frowns and blinks when he drops his hands, eyes latching onto the sight of Goofy talking to some random guy in a leather jacket. They exchange more words before they leave off together, Goofy climbing in a black Camaro with Leather Jacket Guy.

Jackson swallows tightly and curls his hand into a fist.

 _Fucking slut,_ he thinks angrily. He fumbles for his own keys, planning on following them and—and just—tell them off or whatever. _Fucking—I should…I **should**._

"I hope your not planning on driving," a voice says from behind him as a hand drops to his shoulder to stop him.

Jackson blinks blurrily and turns to see Tom watching him carefully. He scowls and flips the dark skinned boy off.

Tom grins and pulls his hand back. "Dude—you is out of your head. Or was there some reason you was giving our captain the stare down like he and you are—"

"Fuck off, Tom," Jackson snaps and stumbles slightly. He doesn't want to think about what he was about to do. "I can fucking—just fuck off. None of your business."

"Yeah, aight, whatever you say. But if you want to go home I'll take you. I ain't gonna let your stupid drunk ass wreck that fucking decent piece of machinery you call a Porsche, know what I mean? So you ready to go, let's go," Tom says, twisting Jackson's keys loose from his grip.

Jackson mutters something but doesn't protest. He just follows Tom to his car and lets himself be pushed into the passenger seat and buckled in. There's not much he remembers after this because he falls asleep and wakes up in the middle of the night in his own bed. He groans and rolls onto his side and spoons a pillow in an attempt to alleviate the growing ache in his stomach. He drops back off into sleep and dreams of sand and cactuses and poker chips and florescent red light bulbs that spell out his name.

888

Saturday evening finds Jackson sitting on his bed, legs folded under him like a pretzel and an array of papers scattered around him. Everything he reads and scans are all information that Tom managed to dig up for him. He takes everything in with a thoughtful amount of consideration, over and over until his eyes strain and his head aches in protest. It isn't until then does he gathers all the papers up and stuffs them back into the manila envelope. He shoves that into a shoebox and stuffs it deep in the back of his walk-in closet. Then he grabs his iPod shuffle on the way out and inserts it in the portable stereo on his nightstand.

He goes right to K-OS and turns it up as loud as it can go.

He then treks over to his desk and shakes his mouse so that his computer whirs to life. He wastes no time in looking up driving directions and hotel fees, making a quick work of reserving a penthouse suite, courtesy of one of Jeremy's credit cards, online. He smirks and exits out of the browser, grabs the directions from his printer and puts it on his nightstand. He then grabs his phone and scrolls through until he finds Lydia's name.

Jackson sends off a quick text before tossing his phone back on his bed and walking into the doorway of his walk-in closet. He reaches up and takes ahold of the pull-up bar and begins doing pull-ups until his arms get sore, which isn't until sometime much later.

It certainly doesn't surprise Jackson when Lydia comes storming into his room sometime around nine o'clock that night while he's in the middle of packing.

"Jackson what the hell is this?" Lydia demands as she hold up her phone.

"So you got my text," Jackson says casually. "Good to know."

"Good to know? Good to _know?!_ " Lydia shrieks. "What part of " _Things not workin out. Think we should part ways."_ is something that's good to know? Jackson this isn't funny."

"I know it's not," Jackson says, giving her a look that says _duh_. "If it were a joke I would have put haha at the end or something."

"You fucking asshole," Lydia hisses and throws her phone at him.

Jackson manages to duck in time. "Don't be so hysterical," he says flatly.

"Oh you!" Lydia charges at him and starts hitting him with her fists. "I gave you everything! I'm giving you everything and you want to break up with me? For what? Why? What am I not even worth a phone call, you could have at least done it face to face!"

Jackson dodges all her swings and grabs her wrists. "I'm not happy. Do you want me to keep lying to you?" he asks.

"Well I'm happy—or I was," she retorts.

"Just makes one of us then. Don't grovel, Lydia. It's not going to get me to change my mind and it's only making me more sure about ending things," Jackson says honestly.

"I hate you," Lydia croaks as her eyes water.

Jackson refuses to feel guilty.

"I hate you," she whispers again as tears spill over onto her cheeks.

"No—you don't," Jackson says knowingly.

"I should," Lydia whimpers and shoves him away. "I should hate you. You don't give a shit about anyone but yourself."

"Kettle, pot, black," Jackson counters and he's more than sure that it was the wrong thing to say. He turns away and goes back to packing.

Lydia's face goes blank and her eyes go cold. "Fuck you," she snaps and storms out, only to circle back and grab her phone before storming out once more.

Jackson pauses and listens to her stomp down the steps and out the front door, which she slams shut behind her. He just exhales and finishes clearing out most of his drawers.

"That's quite a state Ms. Lydia left in," Loretta says from his doorway.

Jackson doesn't acknowledge her.

"Boy, what's going on with you?" she asks and lets herself in, stopping at the edge of his bed.

"Nothing, Loretta," Jackson lies. "What's going on with you?"

"I'm worried, that's what," Loretta says quite candidly. "Don't think just cause they ain't notice that I haven't. You ain't goin' on a retreat is you?"

Jackson shrugs.

"I wish you'd talk to me. Tell me what's goin' through that thick head of yours," Loretta says.

"Nothing. Don't worry about it," Jackson insists and walks around her to grab another duffel bag.

"Jackson I love you—but I don't have to like the things you do. But I let you make all them decisions you think is right and best for you cause that's the only way you ever gone learn from them," Loretta says. "You a smart boy and it's a shame that your parents can't see how bright you are, but I know, and I don't know what I'd do if you went off and squandered it."

"They're not my parents," Jackson mutters, shoving more clothes into his red duffel bag. "And I'm not your problem."

"No, they not parents. Don't mean they don't care about you. They got a weird way of showin' it, I know. That's cause they never been taught right. They don't know that throwin' money at you or buying your affections ain't the way to raise a child," Loretta continues. "And where the hell did you get the idea that you a problem? I know I haven't done as much as you need and that I ain't ya mamma but I have tried so dearly to do what I can for you. Just because one woman and one man decided not to keep you, doesn't mean the rest of the world will reject you."

"Just save the goddamn speeches, Loretta," Jackson snaps and ignores the twinge he gets at seeing hurt flick through her eyes. "This is not your business." He swallows and practically shoves the next words out of his mouth. "You're just the hired help. Nothing more. So fuck off."

Loretta takes a step back and stares at him with something unfathomable in her expression.

Jackson stares defiantly back.

Loretta nods wordlessly and turns to exit. When she reaches his door, she pauses, and without turning around, says, "I'll be here when you get back. And I'll be waiting for an apology. I love you and that ain't gone change—but you got some growing up to do."

Jackson watches as she continues on and out of his sight. He swallows again and stubbornly goes back to his packing. When he finishes, he throws on his leather jacket, pockets his phone and his keys and hauls all his luggage down the steps, out the front door and down the drive to his car. When he puts all his bags in the trunk, he jogs back into the house for iPod shuffle, the directions and the shoebox containing the manila envelope.

When he climbs in his car and whips down the road, he doesn't look back.

Not even once.


	3. Viva Las Vegas

_The only journey is the one within._

**_― Rainer Maria Rilke_ **

888

Hours of driving finds Jackson on the outskirts of Las Vegas, Nevada. He pulls into a truck stop, parks his car and lowers his seat back for some shuteye. The next time he wakes is in the early afternoon of Sunday. He pulls his seat up and rubs at his eyes tiredly, glancing down at the clock on his radio before he starts his car again. He glances at the directions he has on the dashboard, drives out of the truck stop and back onto the road.

He drives three miles before he pulls into a highway diner called ‘ _Savannah’_ that sits just on the border of Las Vegas. His mother’s file is on the dashboard and just on the first page rests a clipped photo of a woman with dirty brown hair set in waves, green eyes and a smile that burns at him for some unknown reason. He doesn’t know what he wants, as strange as that sounds. He’s come this far, made all of these plans and he still has no fucking clue what he wants or what he means to do.

Jackson feels his hands tighten around his steering wheel and he clenches his jaw long enough to see the very woman he’s been thinking about step out the glass double doors of the diner. She looks older than her picture does—tired and worn with messy hair tied back in a ponytail. She’s wearing a dull sea blue waitress dress with a white apron on the front and a square name plaque pinned just about her left breast. She looks upset and her hands shake when she reaches down into the apron for a pack of cigarettes. She quickly singles one out and shoves it between her pursed lips, cursing as her thumb flicks violently at the lighter she points at the tip of the cigarette. She looks run down but she—she’s beautiful.

Not beautiful in the way models are in magazines or in the playboy spreads after they’ve been made over and photoshopped. Not beautiful in the way Disney princesses are, the ones he used to develop thick crushes on when he was younger, with their bubbly yet elegant personalities and perfect singing voices. She’s like the apples that grow in that creepy twisted tree Danny’s moms keep in their backyard. Despite how evil and ominous that black tree looked, it always made the perfect apples. It’s kind of proof that something good and natural can come from something ugly. She’s like a desert rose—everything around her pales in comparison when she’s present.

Jackson swallows as he watches her and waits, as if some hidden fury will spring up at any moment just by the sight of her. He white knuckles his steering wheel because he feels nothing but anxiety. Could have been minutes or maybe hours that he watches every inhale and exhale she takes before retreating inside again. He relaxes and leans back in his seat, slipping on his shades again before gathering himself. He tries not to linger or hesitate as he slips out of his Porsche, locking the doors twice before he strides toward the diner with a confident strut he does not feel in the least. The sand and gravel crunch under his shoes and the sun burns brightly in the sky. He tries not to think about all the reasons why this could be a very bad idea.

He pulls open the door and bells jingle overhead, calling attention to him for the very few patrons that are in the diner. Jackson hesitates but then hates himself for it. He lowers his head and shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans before shuffling over to some corner of the diner. His stomach is attempting to do somersaults inside of him and his wrists ache a bit where his pulse lies. He rubs at them absentmindedly as he slides into a booth and feebly picks at a menu. He’s not exactly hungry but he knows it will look odd if he doesn’t order something. He anxiously scans it just as he notices one of the waitresses make their way to him. She’s wearing a dark hijab but her face reminds him of Jasmine from Aladdin.

It’s only a mere coincidence that name on her nametag reads [**Yasmin**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/547809/chapters/975536).

“Hot day,” Yasmin comments. “Wouldn’t you say?”

Jackson shrugs.

“What can I get for you?” She grabs a pencil from one of the pockets of her apron and poises the tip at the ready just above her small notebook.

Jackson clears his throat and says, “Cup of coffee.”

“Just a coffee?”

“Yes.”

Yasmin smiles genuinely and scribbles it down. She says, “We got one of those new—damn I always forget the name of it—a new coffee machine. Only it isn’t coffee, um, they call it something else. Ex-ex-expressway or something? I’m not a coffee drinker so it’s—the name is escaping me.”

Jackson bites at his thumbnail. He’s not really in the mood for small talk. “Espresso.”

“Yup. That’d be the one. You want me to fix you one of those?”

Jackson doubts she could manage it if she couldn’t even remember what it was called in the first place. “Coffee is just fine,” he repeats. It isn’t like he plans on drinking it anyway.

Yasmin leaves with a satisfied nod as if she approves of his choice.

Jackson lays his menu down and glances around once more. He can’t spot the woman he’s looking for: [**_Jacqueline Malia Tate_**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/547809/chapters/975536). His eyes keep searching as his fingers drum out a restless beat against the edge of the table.

Yasmin returns not a minute later with a steaming cup of coffee. She smiles and says, “If you find that you want anything else just flag me down.”

Jackson gives a short nod before he goes through the motions of snapping open sugar packets and cream containers over his coffee. He’s giving the allusion that he’s planning on drinking it. He grabs a dingy looking spoon and stirs with a soft _‘clink, clink, clink’_ before his eyes move restlessly again.

It’s an hour before Jacqueline pops out again, juggling plates and drinks as she sweeps around the diner to deliver meals. She’s all smiles and charming chitchat as she zigzags to each patron. They all respond in kind to her, which speaks a lot to her likability.

Jackson pushes away the cooled coffee and grabs a napkin, tearing it to shreds with a frown as he watches his biological mother flirt with the biker gang crammed into a big horse-shaped booth on the other end of the diner. He tenses up when he sees one of them grab her ass, but she laughs it off.

Jackson shakes his head, drops a fifty on the table, and exits the diner without a backwards glance. He climbs into his Porsche and drives into the heart of Las Vegas, looking for the glitziest hotel he can find. When he locates one he pulls around and parks next to the valet booth. He doesn’t see an actual valet so he just pockets his keys and grabs his bags from the trunk, fully intending to check-in. On his way to the revolving doors he gets stopped by a pair of identical twins with dark hair, pale skin with freckled moles, and honey-colored eyes that remind him of someone. The thing that stands out the most about them is that they’re both freakishly a whole two heads taller than him. For some reason they remind him of Zan and Jayna from the [**Wonder Twins**](http://superfriends.wikia.com/wiki/Wonder_Twins), a stupid cartoon show he used to watch religiously when he was still in preschool.

Jackson lifts an eyebrow. “What, is the circus in town?” he mutters but he’s pretty sure they can hear him. He glares at them unapologetically and takes a step back so they don’t loom over him so much.

Zan is smirking. “Trouble you for a magic trick?” His hand twists up and snaps apart a deck of cards with gleaming edges.

Jackson frowns.

Jayna snickers like she finds his reaction cute. “Not into magic, huh? How about a smoke then? I can sell you a quarter of weed for fifty bucks.”

Jackson’s frown deepens. “I’d pay you a hundred bucks just to get you two to fuck off.”

They both snicker and grin identically and it’s fucking _bizarre._ They’re both watching him hungrily and it’s making Jackson’s skin crawl.

Jayna says, “Or we could fuck _you_ for the right price.”

“I’m not fucking anybody until I get to do my trick so pick a card, man,” Zan insists as he does this fancy shuffling move that Jackson has a hard time following with his eyes.

“I don’t want—”

Jayna cuts him off. “People are usually into twins,” she insists.

“People usually pick a card,” Zan adds and eyes Jackson skeptically with a thoughtful smirk.

“You new to town, kid?” Jayna asks as she skims her honey-colored eyes over him. She’s got a whole lot of nerve. She doesn’t look a day over eighteen. “We can show you all the best spots.”

“No charge of course,” Zan promises. “You look like you like to have a good time.”

Jackson gives a hard sigh. “Leave me alone.” He brushes past them roughly and enters the hotel. He checks-in and pays with cash before he shoves his luggage at the bell hop with an impatient sneer. He takes the keycard they give him for the penthouse suite and strides out the revolving doors. He palms his body for his sunglasses and his keys.

When Jackson finds both he doesn’t waste his time noticing that those two circus clowns aren’t around anymore. Management or something probably chased them off. Whatever. Jackson seriously doesn’t care. He climbs into his car and drives around Las Vegas just looking at things and trying not to think about what he’s going to do. He’s not ready to go back to Beacon Hills yet, and he doesn’t want to stay in Vegas.

In the end he winds up in a strip club for the better part of six hours, paying for lap dances and shrimp cocktails at the same rate. He stumbles out of the club when he runs out of singles (he’s already dropped a good thirteen hundred) and tries to brush off all the glitter on his clothes and the lipstick on his cheeks.

Jackson drives to the nearest bar, uses his fake id to get in, and takes shot after shot after shot until the bartender cuts him off and sends him stumbling on his way. He’s not sure how he manages to make it back to the hotel without crashing. He does remember throwing up on the valet’s shoes before shoving the keys in his direction, threatening to sue if he finds any goddamn puke in his Porsche. He stumbles through the revolving doors and across the lobby to the elevator where he falls asleep until the ding of the doors opening cause him to jerk awake.

Jackson presses his wet forehead to the cool glass of the elevator and watches as everything below shrinks smaller and smaller the higher up he goes. When he reaches his floor and the doors open to the penthouse suite, he doesn’t bother looking around. He staggers over to the white king-sized bed all the way on the other end of the suite and watches the lights of Las Vegas through the spectacular view from the wall of windows with bleary eyes.

Jackson claws his clothes off until he’s completely naked and he manages to locate his phone. He scrolls through his contacts, pauses at Danny’s, keeps going, pauses at Loretta’s, keeps going, pauses at Lydia’s, keeps going before he ends up at the beginning again. He doesn’t let himself think about it before he hits one name in particular and lets the phone rest on the side of his face while he lies on his stomach.

“ _Hello?_ ”

Jackson doesn’t say anything.

“ _Hello? Jackson?_ ”

Jackson shuts his eyes tightly.

Snow White sighs on the other end. “ _You know, I could hang up and just write it off as you butt-dialing me or something. But I heard that—well everyone knows that—and Lydia…_ ”

Jackson puts the phone on speaker before burying his face into a pillow. He’s tempted to scream but he just feels so bone-dead tired and angry. He doesn’t want to think.

“ _Jackson?_ ” Pause. Two beats. “ _It’s okay that you called me. You can talk to me. I mean I know we’re not friends in the sense that we just share or whatever but we could—um, we could. I—I’m sorry. I just kinda don’t know what to do in this situation, I guess. Are you there? Please give me something so I don’t feel like a complete moron._ ”

Jackson grunts.

“ _Oh thank God._ ” Snow White huffs and laughs in relief. “ _So uh—I heard you kind of peeled out. I mean Lydia told me you guys broke up, um—you probably don’t want to talk about that. Even though I did hear that you guys had been together since kindergarten which is like tough._ ”

Jackson frowns.

“ _I don’t think she’s left her house since the party. I think Danny was supposed to take her to the video store or something to cheer her up but there was some kind of animal attack—um, sorry. I said I wouldn’t talk about her and I am just totally talking about her and being an insensitive jerk.”_

Jackson’s frown deepens.

“ _Uh—well, so my brother and I—you know Stiles—”_

Jackson screws his eyes tight and grits his teeth.

 _“Well we had this crazy thing happen to us on Saturday morning where we found this body, well, half of a body, and I am so not ashamed to admit that I fainted because God the **smell** alone was…_ ”

Jackson lets himself drift and he lets Snow White ramble. It’s comforting in a way. He doesn’t think about why that is.

888

When Jackson can peel himself out of bed the next day sometime around three in the afternoon, he notices that timestamp on his phone call with Snow White reads three hours. He huffs in amusement. Snow White talked to him for a good three hours before she hung up. He almost wonders at what she was saying, but the splitting headache he has doesn’t leave much room for remembering anything.

So he decides not to care, showers, gets dressed, goes to the gym to work out for an hour and a half before he showers again and gets dressed a final time. It’s six before he climbs into his car and makes his way out to the diner that sits on the city’s outskirts. He parks in that dusty parking lot and watches the lights to the diner sign take turns lighting up the words that make the name what it is.

Jackson feels his hands tighten around his steering wheel and he clenches his jaw long enough to see the very woman he’s been thinking about and trying _not_ to think about sitting on the bus bench to the far left. She looks calmer than she did the day before—complacent almost—still tired and worn though. Her hair, which is the same unmistakable shade that matches his, is pouring over her shoulders in wily and messy waves. She’s still wearing that dull sea blue waitress dress with a white apron on the front and a square name plaque pinned just about her left breast. She puffs away at a cigarette that’s close to being finished and she stares off into space. She looks run down but she—she’s still _fucking_ beautiful. 

Jackson hates her so much. He wants to just—he wants to—he wants—

Jackson punches his steering wheel in frustration as he watches her stand and press through the glass double doors of the diner, being swallowed in by jukebox music and soft lighting. He sighs and wills his hands to stop shaking as he stumbles out of his Porsche with a dry swallow. It’s hot tonight and it only adds to his agitation.

He pockets his keys and presses his Ray-Bans on as he shoulders his way through those glass double doors. He singles out the booth he was in last time, knowing without a doubt that he’ll be out of his mother’s reach if he places himself outside of her area. He slides into the booth and looks over the menu, playing heads or tails with himself about what food item is least likely to give him indigestion.

It’s a toss up to be truthful. He hates diners.

Yasmin flocks to him like a fat bee would to a spoonful of honey and she presents him with her best smile.

Jackson smirks subtly. He knows it’s because of that fat tip he left her yesterday.

“Just coffee again or were you thinking of ordering some food this time?” Yasmin asks as she poises her pencil at the ready over her small pad.

“What would you recommend? I’d like to leave with my digestive system intact,” Jackson says with all honesty.

Yasmin laughs and it’s a disaster of a laugh.

Jackson winces and hunches down some because she’s calling attention to them.

“Oh sorry,” Yasmin gasps before she gets ahold of herself. “Well, uh, how about the soup of the day? Broccoli and cheese. Comes with a bread roll and your choice of drink.”

Jackson shrugs. “Fine. I’ll take a coke.”

“Yeah, you look like a coke person,” Yasmin mutters to herself. She flashes him one last smile and wanders off to the kitchen to push the order through.

Jackson glances around until he spots Jacqueline. She’s talking to some old man with white hair. He’s pressing crumpled dollar bills into her hands and it looks like she’s trying to politely decline but the old man remains persistent.

Jacqueline says something to the old man before kissing him on the cheek and patting him on the shoulder. She steps back as the old man slides out of the booth, puts on his brown fedora and grabs his walking cane before limping out of the diner.

Jackson watches Jacqueline watch the old man disappear. She stands motionless for a moment with her hands still full of crumpled bills. She looks down, then looks up, and then looks down at her hands again before she shoves it all in the front pockets of her apron.

Jackson can’t be sure but it looks like her hands are shaking and she lifts one hand to rub the tip of her nose against the back of her wrist. This gesture makes Jackson realize that they share the same nose. For some reason it makes the fact that she’s his mother all the more real, and suddenly he’s undeniably queasy.

Yasmin comes back with his soup and coke but Jackson’s already springing to his feet in a moment of panic. Unfortunately this startles Yasmin and the bowl of soup slips from her hands with a wet crash while the coke spills all over her.

“Shit,” Jackson hisses. “Sorry—I—shit.” He ducks away and grabs two fistfuls of napkins before he shoves it at her in an attempt to be helpful.

All it really does though is draw the attention of the whole diner.

Jackson silently shakes in panic as his mother looks right at him and that’s just about all he can take before he’s yanking money out of his pockets and dropping as many hundreds as he can find before he sprints to the door and out into the humid night air. In his rush to leave, he knocks into some chick with a pixie cut and a million earrings in her ears holding the hand of some twelve-year-old girl with dirty blond hair and large blue eyes that rival his own.

The chick growls at him— _fucking_ growls and Jackson gapes because he could swear her eyes turn an electric blue color or something but it _has_ to be a trick of light.

“What’s your problem, man?” the chick says, puffing out her chest like she’s totally ready to be confrontational.

Jackson stares. He can’t help that he stares because despite her rough attitude and her hardcore expression she looks pretty and soft like a— “Butch princess.”

The chick stares at him hard.

Jackson flushes. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. He’s an idiot.

The chick’s expression hardens and hardens by the second, and if looks could kill then Jackson would be six feet under already. “What the hell did you call me?”

“It’s a compliment. Relax,” Jackson says defensively, taking a step back as she bristles. He quickly backtracks his words and splutters, “You’re acting like I called you a bitch or something.”

The chick starts cracking her knuckles as she smirks ominously. “Oh I wish you had,” she remarks calmly.

The twelve-year-old girl eyes him curiously. “You reek of fear and shame,” she comments.

“What?” Jackson stares at her like she’s crazy because what kind of preteen says something like that? “How the hell would you know what shame and fear smells like?”

The girl simply says, “You’re a dumbass.”

Jackson glares but he feels a flush crawl up the back of his neck.

The hardcore pixie chick next to her snickers. “Language, Malia. Your mom would kill me if she heard you spewing that shit.”

“But I learned the word from _you_ , Cora.”

Cora and Malia give each other significant looks but the exchange is almost playful. Sisterly even.

It makes Jackson uncomfortable. Like he’s witnessing some weird, private family moment.

Cora looks back at him. “What are you looking so constipated for, dipshit?”

“I don’t have time for this,” Jackson decides and steps around them to head towards his Porsche.

“Hey, mister! Drive safe!” Malia yells after him.

“You’re such a dork, Mal.”

“What? What I do?”

Jackson ignores them both as he climbs into his car and sets it in reverse.

Cora glares at him the whole time, and Malia watches him with curious eyes and a shy grin.

Jackson puts it all out of his mind as the diner shrinks in his rearview mirrors and the lights of Vegas draw closer. He rides around for a while before he pulls up to his hotel. He steps out of his car, tosses his keys to the valet and decides to walk around. He finds his way to some swanky little club pulsating with dub step music and strobe lights. He takes one look at that long line and heads straight towards the bouncer with a couple of hundreds in hand.

The bouncer pockets the money, lifts the red rope, and lets him through without carding him.

Jackson ignores the murmuring and complaining that hails from the people waiting in line. He lets the sounds and the atmosphere of the club swallow him in and consume his senses. He makes a beeline for the bar, throws some money at the bartender until he’s given a couple of bottles of Alizé Cognac, walks them over to the VIP section, throws money at the security guard standing there and acquires one for himself.

He situates himself on a leather couch that faces the dance floor and he watches people grind on each other while waving their glow sticks.

He eventually finds his way to the bottom of his cognac bottles and he increases his tab by ordering more and more until he’s completely drowned out his sorrows.

He gets lured to the dance floor by a group of tittering women who happen to be in the midst of some kind of bachelorette party. For some reason they seem to think he must be famous or something. They keep asking him if he’s a model or if they’ve seen him in movies or is he an up and coming artist and where are his friends and a pretty face like his should never be left alone.

He gets passed around between them for body shots and open-mouth kisses. It gets hazy after a while but he’s pretty sure he finger-bangs most of the bridesmaids before the bride-to-be drags him into the men’s washroom, drops down to her knees and just goes to town on his dick.

Jackson can’t remember if he comes or not. He barely even knows if he wanted it.

He stumbles his way out into the night air and gasps at the gust of cold that hits his sweaty body. He doesn’t have a shirt on—he fucking lost his shirt, or one of those crazy bitches took them.

Staggering back to the hotel takes a good hour because he’s shamefully inebriated and even after he makes it back to the hotel one of the bell hops have to escort him up to his room.

Jackson doesn’t make it to his bed this time, but whatever, the living room floor is just as good anyway.

It’s not until he wakes up to puke two hours later that he realizes something.

Malia. Just like his mother’s middle name.

That girl.

Jackson might have just accidently met his little sister.

He has a little sister.

888

It’s housekeeping that jolts him into consciousness. Some short Hispanic woman is talking to him in rushed Spanish. He blinks blearily up at her and her furrowed brow before he guesses that she’s asking him to exit the tub.

Oh yeah.

Jackson had fallen into the Jacuzzi tub and had felt too nauseated to move. He must have passed out there.

He grunts and manages to sway to his feet so he can retreat to his bedroom. He doesn’t miss the way the cleaning lady sighs in relief and draws a quick cross over herself the way Catholics do during mass.

Jackson plops facedown on his bed and just lays there for a while, concentrating on the sounds of the cleaning staff puttering around the suite to get it in top order. He waits until he hears them exit before he drags himself into the glass standing showers to rid himself of spit and sweat and lipstick. He climbs out and walks over to the sink mirror, not caring that he’s dripping all over the place.

He swipes his hand over the foggy mirror until he can get a clear view of himself. What he sees twists something ugly in his gut. He’s got hickeys all over his body, along with phone numbers and words scribbled into his skin with what looks like a permanent marker.

The most prominent mark lies on his forehead, and it reads: slut.

Jackson swallows dryly and stares at it for a long time. He turns away and climbs back into the shower, scrubbing his skin raw until there are blemishes of pink and red left all over him to replace the numbers and the words. He’s ashamed to admit that he cries while he jerks off roughly until his dick feels just a bit sore but he just wants to not think about how last night comes to him in blotches. He feels a bit out of control and it’s just too much on top of everything else.

Jackson curls up against the wall of the shower and hides his face into his knobby knees and he sobs and sobs like he’ll never stop. He does though, eventually. He comes stumbling out of that bathroom wet and red everywhere. He slips on a pair of boxers, hunts around for his phone and falls backwards on his bed.

He scrolls through his recent contacts and ignores all the missed calls and text messages until he gets to the name he wants. He pushes send and puts his phone on speaker before laying his phone flat on his bare chest. He doesn’t even know what time it is.

“ _Hello?_ ”

Jackson stares at the ceiling.

“ _Hello?_ ” Pause. “ _Jackson—”_ Another pause followed by a shuffling noise. There’s the click of a door shutting. “ _Jackson, are you okay? What’s wrong?_ ”

Jackson says nothing.

Snow White sighs. “ _I’m worried about you. I am. I don’t know—”_ She stops suddenly. “ _I hope you’re okay. You should take care of yourself. You got—you have people who care._ ”

Jackson doesn’t believe that. No one cares. No one.

“ _I’ve probably said this too much but you can talk to me. You can. About anything,_ ” she promises.

Jackson clenches his fists as anger burns hot and raw in his throat.

“ _I get that you’re going through a tough time,_ ” she says. Pause. She sighs. “ _Finding out you’re adopted is a big dea—”_

Jackson ends the call and tosses his phone onto his open luggage before he rolls over onto a pillow and screams.

888

Six days.

That’s how long he lasts staying holed up in that hotel doing nothing but sleeping and eating and working out until it hurts. He doesn’t want to wind up back at that diner.

He doesn’t.

Only he fucking does because he’s some kind of martyr for pain.

Jackson shoves himself into some clothes and marches right out of that hotel like he has a bone to pick with someone. He snaps at the valet and he shoves the guy out of the way when he brings his Porsche around. He turns the knob on his radio until he lands on a heavy metal station and he turns it up so loud that his ears hurt.

He _hates_ heavy metal.

But Jackson is—he’s so very—so fucking livid with himself and his behavior. He rolls all his windows down when he escapes the city’s limits and he yells long and hard until his heart pounds fiercely in his chest.

He reaches the diner.

He punches his radio off and takes his keys out of the ignition before he leans back in his seat to stew in silence. He glares at his mother through the windshield because it’s eight in the morning and she’s sitting out on that fucking bench with those goddamn cigarettes.

Doesn’t she know those things kill? Doesn’t she care about getting cancer in her stupid fucking throat? Or losing all that beautiful hair to chemotherapy?

It eats at Jackson. It really does.

She’s just sitting there on that bus bench, smoking and smoking with not a care in the world. She looks so naturally flawless doing it. She just sucks that cigarette down and flicks it off to the side before stretching her arms up with a yawn.

It’s so disgustingly normal. It’s so stupidly human.

Jacqueline disappears into the diner and Jackson is just sitting in the fucking parking lot like an idiot. What the hell is he doing?

What the hell is _she_ doing?

How dare she? Doesn’t she wonder about him? Doesn’t she ever stop and think about the fact that she has a fucking fifteen-year-old son somewhere out in the world? He could be dead or dying or famous or a fucking mess. He’s such a fucking mess.

Jackson grits his teeth and fights back the tears that are edging into his line of sight.

He hates her. He hates her. Hates her—hates her—hates her— _hates **her** —_

Knock, knock.

Jackson jumps, startled.

It’s Malia.

Jackson exhales roughly and scrubs at his eyes before he shoves his keys into the ignition so that he can have the power to lower the window.

When he does, Malia aims a gaped tooth smile at him.

Jackson lifts both brows expectantly.

Malia just goes on smiling.

Jackson clears his throat in agitation and says, “What the hell do you want?”

Malia’s smile never falters. She points at the space where her missing tooth is and says, “Just got rid of my last baby tooth.”

“So?”

“So,” Malia echoes with a shrug. Her smile is blinding. “It’s cool.”

Jackson clenches his jaw and grinds out, “How old are you anyway? Aren’t you twelve? That’s stupid to get happy about.”

“I’m eight, dumbass. But mom and Cora say I’m growing like a weed. A lot of people think I’m twelve,” Malia supposes with another shrug.

Jackson fidgets. That smile is getting to him. “Well is that it?” he asks grumpily.

“Nope,” Malia chirps and leans into his window as her nose wrinkles. “You reek. Were you crying?”

“Get the hell out of here!” Jackson shouts, shooing her away.

Malia just laughs throatily and looks at him like he’s some kind of cute kitten trying to be intimidating. “I’m not scared of you.”

“Then you’re the dumbass.”

Malia chuckles and shrugs happily. She glances around the inside of his car. “Smells new. What year?”

“What does it matter?” Jackson asks, already so done with this conversation. “Take your freaky nose somewhere else and leave me alone.”

“You haven’t been here in a while. Why’s that? Shouldn’t you be in school?” Malia questions.

“Shouldn’t _you?_ ” Jackson mutters, spitefully.

“Homeschooling,” Malia explains. “I have a furry condition that hinders my social skills. My old principal called it ‘anger management and aggression’ issues. _Pft_ , what did he know anyway? Humans are stupid.”

Jackson stares at her like she’s the wackiest thing on the planet.

“So where do you come from? What’s your name? Are you a runaway? I bet you’re a runaway. There’s a lot of those in Vegas,” Malia rambles as she grabs his shades from the sun visor and puts them on like it’s not big deal. “What’s your name anyway? My name’s [**Malia Tate**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/547809/chapters/975536).”

When she thrusts a hand at his face he has to quickly move his head back to avoid getting a broken nose.

Malia puts her other hand on her hip, looking as nonchalant as possible in _his_ glasses. She huffs and says, “I don’t know what your annoyed at me for. You’re supposed to shake it, dumbass.”

Jackson has never had the urge to strike a child until now. “Give them back,” he warns.

“Give what back?”

“My glasses.”

“Ask nicely.”

“I’m not going to—”

Malia growls and it sound absolutely feral. “I said, ask, _nicely_.”

Jackson presses his lips together and glares.

Malia glares back, or at least he thinks she does. He can’t tell because she _still_ has his glasses on.

Jackson silently stews.

Malia eventually huffs and ruffles his hair. “You’re so adorable. You’re like a grumpy puppy.”

“Stop touching me,” Jackson says with as much patience as he can muster. He bats her hand away.

“Come inside and eat. You’re hungry,” and then she fucking _skips off_ with his glasses like it’s no big deal.

Jackson weighs his options. He bangs his forehead against his steering wheel for three minutes before he grudgingly exits his car after he rolls the window back up. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans and uses his shoulder to push through the glass double doors.

The diner is pretty dead. This makes him wary.

Malia waves at him from where she’s sitting at the bar.

Jackson feels his mouth sag but he walks over regardless and takes up residence on the stool on her right.

Malia slides a menu over to him and pushes his sunglasses back onto the bridge of her nose before she says, “You can look through this. But I already know what we’re going to eat.”

Jackson has several scathing remarks waiting at the tip of his tongue but he goes with the nicer one and says, “Then what’s the point of me looking at it?”

Malia shrugs like she honestly has no clue.

Jackson hopes beyond all belief that this little cretin isn’t his sister.

That hopes gets dashed when Jacqueline stands across from them with a prominent frown. “Malia Petra Tate,” she says sternly.

“Yes lovely mother?” Malia fidgets.

“Remember that talk we had about you talking to strangers?” Jacqueline says lowly.

Malia nods and says, “But he’s okay.” She taps the side of her nose.

Jacqueline shoots Malia an exasperated look, glancing briefly at Jackson before she quickly turns her gaze back to Malia. “You have to be careful. You promised to be careful after New York.”

“That was half my fault though.”

“ _Malia._ ”

Malia groans dramatically. “Cora’s teaching me to be better. She is the best teacher in the world. Aren’t I better?”

“Yes but,” Jacqueline pauses and sighs before she’s turns to Jackson. “I’m sorry, my daughter gets it in her head that it’s her God-given right to impose on any and everyone she finds even remotely fascinating. I’m Jacqueline Tate.” She offers a hand.

Jackson almost doesn’t take it, but he does and he fucks up by saying, “I know.”

Jacqueline looks confused and then suspicious. Her face grows hard and her grip on his hand tightens. “Mind running that by me one more time? How exactly do you know?”

Jackson bites the inside of his cheek and says, “Nametag.”

“My nametag says Betty,” Jacqueline coolly remarks. “Try again.”

Jackson refuses to be intimidated but he winces as her grip tightens further. “You’re going to break my hand, lady,” he croaks.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t?” Jacqueline challenges with a glare.

“Because,” Jackson grits out and his heart is racing a mile a minute. He swallows, looks her right in the eyes, and says, “I’m your son.”

Jacqueline’s lips part with a quiet gasp and her hand goes completely limp in shock.

“Whoa! Cool!” Malia chirps in excitement. “That explains everything! Mom, he looks just like you! Oh man, I always wanted an older brother and you smelled just right. Hey mom, how come you never said anythin—”

That’s about all Jackson can take before he flees, dignity be damned. He climbs into Porsche and peels out of that parking lot.

He swears he won’t go back.

He can’t.

Jackson feels like a coward.

888

The Wonder Twins seem like they’re waiting for him when he makes it back to the hotel.

“I’m not in the mood,” Jackson warns when they flock to him the second he steps out of his Porsche so the valet can park it.

They grin simultaneously and it’s still fucking _creepy_ how identical they look by doing it.

“I mean it. Fuck off,” Jackson snaps.

Jayna tsks. “You seem tense,” she remarks thoughtfully. “Bad day?”

“I have the miracle cure for bad days,” Zan promises. “You smoke?”

Jackson briefly thinks about what Loretta would say if he said yes, but then he remembers that she isn’t here and he thinks about how fifteen minutes ago he blurted out “I’m your son” like a complete tool and he just can’t think of a reason to say no.

“This doesn’t make us friends,” Jackson clarifies.

The Wonder Twins do that creepy identical grin thing.

Jackson hopes he isn’t going to regret this. “Come on,” he mutters and leads them into the hotel, across the lobby and to the elevator. They ride it up to the penthouse suit and he ignores the way they whistle in tandem.

“Knew you were a rich brat,” Jayna mutters enviously.

Zan laughs as he putters around the complimentary entertainment system sitting in the living room. “How could you have ever thought anything else?”

“Are we going to smoke or do you two want more time to jerk each other off?” Jackson complains as he settles on the couch.

Zan and Jayna snort. Jayna settles on the armchair on the south end of the coffee table while Zan manages to strum up some music. He then drops down to his knees on the north end of the coffee table and he pulls free a plastic bag full of what look like strange herbs.

“What is that?” Jackson asks, leaning forward so he can see.

“A special mix of ours,” Zan says with a wink. “And I know you didn’t ask but my name’s [**June**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/547809/chapters/975536).”

“[ **August**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/547809/chapters/975536),” Jayna chimes.

For all Jackson knows, those could be fake names. So he responds in kind by saying, “Julian,” which is his actual middle name, so fair game.

“Ha, well what do you know?” August says with a crooked smile. “Nothing but monthly names up in this joint. What a coincidence.”

June uses a razor blade to separate the more shrubby looking herbs. When he’s got it all situated to his satisfaction, he sprinkles it onto thin sheets of what looks like black cardboard paper. He licks the edge after he has it rolled up, and it looks really thin.

The last time Jackson did something like this was with Danny and Tom. Tom had been the one to provide them with the joint, and Jackson distinctly remembers that it was a rather thick one.

June spies the skepticism on his face and snorts as he retrieves a metal lighter from his back pocket so he can light the open end of it. He says, “Trust me. You’ve never had anything like this before.” He takes the first hit, making a show of inhaling deeply before he exhales a cloud of red smoke.

“Yeah,” August agrees as she reaches out with grabby hands to take the next hit. She inhales slowly and exhales rings of dark blue smoke like a pro. She takes another quick hit. “It may look small, but it packs a mean punch,” she swears in a pinched voice before she exhales with a lazy smile. She offers it to Jackson. “Your turn, rich boy. Show us what you’re made of.”

Jackson takes it and doesn’t even let himself think about what he’s doing as he takes the first inhale in three quick inhales. It’s sharp. Sharper than what he thought it would be, and it settles almost cloyingly in his lungs and in his throat like black pepper. He wheezes and coughs out yellow smoke.

June and August fall over laughing.

Jackson flushes in embarrassment. “Fuck off,” he mutters as he stares at the joint darkly. “Why does the smoke come out different colors?”

June calms down long enough to explain, “Special blend, remember? It’s that good mood Kush.”

“Picks up on your vibe and broadcasts it,” August adds with a gleeful smile. “You wanna know what yours just told us?”

Jackson blinks rapidly as he’s hit with a wave of whirling euphoria. His heart sways in his chest and his body feels like its floating in water. He misses the amused glances August and June toss to each other when he says, “Oh man—what the _fuck_ …” and he starts swimming in colors.

August rises and circles around the couch so she can put her large hands over his shoulders and pulls him back against the back of the couch. “ _Shh_ , just relax. We’re going to take real good care of you.”

Jackson feels his whole body flush and he groans because even though her hands aren’t touching his skin it still feels breathtaking.

June settles on his knees before him and runs his large hands up and down Jackson’s thighs.

Jackson fidgets and feels himself getting hard.

August slowly drags her tongue along the shell of his ear. “Take another hit,” she whispers.

Jackson shudders because it feels like her voice is crawling over his skin. He brings the joint to his lips with shaking hands and gasps it in when June unzips his pants and reaches inside.

August swallows his yelp of surprise when June deep-throats his dick like Jackson’s paying them for this and he’s looking to run off with a good tip.

This isn’t exactly what he wanted but he doesn’t have the mind to stop it.

He’s always been curious about what it would be like to be with twins. Granted in his fantasies they were both chicks but— _holy hell_.

June hums around him and looks up at him with coy gold eyes while August sucks a trail of biting hickeys across his collarbone.

Jackson’s brain short-circuits and it’s a while before he can get it online again.

888

It’s not like Jackson expected them to stick around after they leave him completely fucked-out in his bed, bone-dead tired and sore in places he’d never thought a person could be sore in.

It was worth the chance he took on them though.

If Jackson ever wondered what it was like to fuck a guy or be fucked by a guy he didn’t have to any longer. And the moves August tried on him put all other girls he’d ever been with to shame.

Lydia would be appalled at the shit-eating grin he wakes up with. She had never been able to put him in this kind of good mood after sex.

He literally feels like he’s been cured of all sadness, hurt, and confusion. It’s kind of hard to explain. Maybe it was the weed or maybe it was the ridiculously filthy hot sex he had with those twins but he just feels different.

Jackson huffs and rolls onto his side as he feels around for his phone on the floor and when he finds it he doesn’t even let himself think when he calls Snow White.

“ _Hello?_ ”

“Congratulate me on the amazing sex I just had,” Jackson demands with a smirk.

“ _Whoa! He speaks!”_ Snow White laughs and gasps out, “ _Congratulations?_ ”

Jackson’s smirk widens into a grin.

There’s some shuffling on her end and he makes out the muffled, “ _Kay, see you later_ ” and “ _Text me, babe_ ”, followed by some distinct kissing sounds.

Jackson rolls his eyes.

“ _Okay. I’m back. Sorry,_ ” Snow White says almost breathlessly. It confirms the kissing.

“You know you could do better right?” Jackson says as he rolls on to his feet and doesn’t bother putting any clothes on as he strolls out onto his balcony. “Matt is a dweeb,” he adds as he scratches his nails against his abs lazily while he looks out into the flashing lights of Vegas.

“ _You’re a dweeb_ ,” Snow White mutters defensively. “ _Don’t be mean, Jackson._ ”

Jackson doesn’t apologize but he doesn’t really think she expects him to.

Snow White sighs and says, “ _Tell me more about the amazing sex._ ”

Jackson grins and huffs. “A little personal, don’t you think?” he teases.

“ _Oh whatever. You’re the one who’s been calling me and just breathing on the other end. I think we’ve surpassed personal_ ,” Allison snidely remarks.

Jackson figures she does have a point. “Guess you’re right,” he concedes.

“ _I know_.” Allison sounds smug. “ _Now tell me about the sex and I’ll tell you about mine_.”

“That doesn’t sound like a fair trade off to be honest.”

“ _Jackson_.”

Jackson chuckles and just says, “Twins.”

“ _Oh God, please elaborate_ ,” Allison begs. “ _Girls?”_

“Boy and a girl.”

Allison grows curiously quiet.

“You still with me, Snow White?” Jackson teases as he leans against the balcony banister and watches the lights below.

“ _You did not just call me that_ ,” Allison fusses, but quickly adds, “ _Was it your first time with a guy? Did you like it? Dick is amazing, isn’t it?_ ”

Jackson nearly drops his phone over the edge and manages to catch it in time as it bounces between his hands. When he puts the phone to his ear he hears Allison laughing like she can’t even breathe. “Yeah fuck you, Argent. I almost dropped my phone,” he complains but he’s not really mad. He laughs a little too because her laughter is infectious.

Allison gasps out, “ _Payback!_ ” and continues to laugh.

Jackson huffs and shakes his head with an eye roll and a grin. He waits until she’s settled down to say, “Dick’s not half bad, you’re right.”

Allison laughs explosively and Jackson smirks when he hears the unmistakable thump of her falling off of her bed.

The conversation moves forward after that, and they talk for maybe three hours before she tells him she has to leave for dinner but promises to text him.

They text each other until midnight and Jackson thinks maybe this is what it really feels like to have a friend.

More than anything he’s glad that she doesn’t talk about her brother once.

Even a mere mention of that gangly loser rubs him the wrong way.

888

Jackson goes to a magic show. It’s stupid and pointless but after spending two days with nothing to do but contemplate where the Wonder Twins might be hiding away at or thinking about how he’s never going to show his face at the diner ever again, well, he finds himself bored.

Going home isn’t really an option.

Allison’s filled him in on all the gritty details about the murders and her family’s strange behavior. She rambles on and on about her parents and some woman she calls Aunt Kate. She still doesn’t talk about her brother and it’s either because she can sense Jackson’s dislike or there’s something else. Either way, Jackson will be damned if he ever asks about it. So he doesn’t. Besides, he’s too busy gagging over how gaga Allison is for that loser, Matt.

Once or twice she complains about her parents inability to see ration when it comes to her relationships and she drops undeniable hints about making a serious decision to prove a point. The term ‘wedding bells’ doesn’t ever actually come up but Jackson makes sure to avoid that line of thought like the plague because he would never give Allison any incentive to think he supports that course of action. He wasn’t being an asshole when he said she could do better. From what she’s been telling him, Matt is nothing but a clingy, over-obsessive moron.

Allison doesn’t see it and Matt must have everyone else fooled but Jackson knows a toxic relationship when he hears one. He and Lydia kept up an extensive one for a number of years. And the thing is that he actually really likes Allison and if Matt ever did anything to hurt her, well, he’s pretty sure he’d be the first person in line to break his arm and damage any other vital organs he could get his hands on.

Anyway, this is beside the point.

The point is that Jackson goes to a magic show. After an hour and a half workout at the hotel’s gym, followed by an hour of swimming laps in the swimming pool, he returns to his suite to find a black envelope with a glittery invitation waiting inside for a magic show.

At first, he isn’t going to go. But then he thinks about how he has practically nothing better to do for the rest of the evening, and he changes his mind and slips into one of his Armani suits.

The directions to the theatre are easy enough to follow on foot, and so he walks. He gets there ten minutes later than he’s supposed to and is surprised by the massive line he sees practically wrapping around the block.

Jackson doesn’t wait in lines. He strides to the front and raises a brow at the hot chick with short locks, full lips, and an hour glass frame sitting under ripped jeans a muscle t-shirt and a studded leather jacket manning the door. He guesses she must be the bouncer.

She drags her gaze over him before meeting his eyes, unimpressed. She’s as tall as the door and when she straightens, even more so. “This is a private show,” she drawls, colorlessly.

“I was invited,” Jackson assures. “But I don’t like to wait.” He waves a few hundreds at her. “You understand?”

She stares at him blankly for a long moment before looks at the money in his hand.

It catches fire suddenly.

Jackson drops it with a startled shout and watches at it incinerates into a cloud of green smoke. He whips his gaze back up to the bouncer lady.

She’s smirking coldly at him. “ _You_ understand?” she counters.

Jackson just gawks at her.

She looks ready to dismiss him but she pauses and eyes his chest. “Where is it?”

Jackson stares.

She purses her lips and her brow furrows impatiently. “You have an invitation,” she drawls.

“That’s what I said the first time,” Jackson replies snidely once he gets ahold of his bearings.

The lady bouncer glares at him like she wants to set _him_ on fire and Jackson swallows nervously. She says, “That’s something everyone says when they come here, but that’s because they’ll say anything to get in.” She frowns. “You have an invitation? Then you show it.”

Jackson reaches into his left breast pocket and pulls out the glittery invite.

The lady bouncer hums and snaps her fingers.

The glittery invite disappears with a crackling pop like a sparkler on the fourth of July.

Jackson silently commends himself for not jumping this time. He quickly slides past the intimidating woman and into the theatre. It’s misty and damp in the main lobby, which is filled with tittering people of all ages and races. Some even look as though they flew straight from their homelands within a moment’s notice to attend this show. It makes him frown in question, but he doesn’t get a chance to linger on it because a flock of parrots swoop down around them, echoing out “Welcome to the show! Welcome to the show!” before they begin chiming names and landing on certain shoulders.

Jackson flinches slightly when one lands on his shoulder and squawks, “Welcome, Jackson. Follow me to your seat,” before fluttering off again into the open doors of the auditorium.

“What the hell is this?” Jackson mutters quietly but he follows the damn parrot. The real entertainment of the night hasn’t even started yet and it’s already turning out to be a freak show.

The parrot flies around his head before leading him to the middle row and shows him to the seat designated for him by landing on it.

Jackson sits down just as the parrot flocks off, squawking, “Enjoy the show!” before going to help the next person.

The auditorium fills slowly but gradually, and all the seats except the one to his immediate left become occupied.

Jackson stops people-watching long enough to skate his eyes over the thick black curtains drawn over the main stage, hiding it from view.

A parrot lands on the seat beside his and when Jackson turns to see who will be taking it, he’s surprised to see Cora, who looks as bitchy as ever, only this time she’s decked out in nicely tailored suit that looks even better than Jackson’s.

Cora plops down beside him and lifts a brow. “What are you doing here?”

“I was invited,” Jackson huffs.

“Yeah, no duh, dumbass. But _why_?” Cora presses as she leans closer and if this is her being subtle about the sniffing then she’s not very good.

“What the hell is it with you guys and smelling?” Jackson complains as he leans away. “And I was just _invited_. Why? Why are you here? And why are you dressed like that?”

Cora’s face twists unhappily and she moves out of his space. “Dressed like what?”

“Dressed like a guy.”

“Because that’s the way I feel,” Cora grits out as she white-knuckles her armrests.

“And when I first met you, you were, what, feeling like a girl?”

“Yes,” Cora hisses.

Jackson lets that sink in. “Are you crazy?”

Cora whips a glare at him and growls lowly.

“No, seriously. Are you schizophrenic? How many personalities do you have?”

“It’s not a mental disorder!” Cora snaps. “I’m androgynous, you dipshit. And before you continue to plague me with ignorant ass questions, yes I was born with a penis and yes I do have breasts, albeit their small ones, but their breasts nonetheless. And while we’re on subject, about my wardrobe, well, guess what? I also identify as gender fluid. What does that mean? That means sometimes I feel more masculine than I do feminine, and sometimes I feel more feminine than I do masculine and sometimes I feel like both or neither or indeterminate. But I know your head must be swimming right now with all the mindboggling information that challenges your heteronormativity, so I’ll keep it short and sweet by leaving it at this: I’m more comfortable with female pronouns so knock yourself out with the ‘ _she_ ’ and the ‘ _hers’_ until I state otherwise. And if you ever try to call me out of my name or force a specific gender on me, I will rip your throat out. With my teeth.”

Jackson nods slowly, silently petrified.

Cora smiles at him like he’s done the right thing, and even her smiles seem predatory and threatening. She says, “Heard about the bombshell you dropped on Mrs. T and Mal. Then you totally bailed. What’s that about?”

Jackson faces forward and clenches his jaw. “It’s nothing,” he says.

“Lie. Try again,” Cora says knowingly.

“Look, you’re the last person I wanted to run into and I‘m sure the feeling is mutual, so why don’t we just pretend we don’t know each other?” Jackson suggests impatiently. He feels cornered.

“But we _do_ know each other. No sense in denying that,” Cora supposes airily. Then she says, “You break Malia’s heart and I’ll break your neck.”

Jackson doesn’t have time to correct her presumptuousness because the lights dim, signaling the start of the show, and the audience begins to clap.

The curtain rises and standing center stage is a gorgeous Latino woman dressed in a nude-colored bodycon dress. She smiles wickedly and clicks her way to the edge of the stage in her candy white heels. Her dark eyes assess each person in the room before her smile dampens into a smirk. “Good evening,” she purrs with a heavy accent. “My name is [**Estefania**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/547809/chapters/975536), and I welcome you to the Hourglass.” Her hand swipes across the air and silver confetti, along with glitter, rains down from the ceiling.

The audience coos in wonder before clapping thunderously.

Estefania maintains her wicked smirk and waits for them to settle down before she continues. “You should be honored to have been invited. For all come from every corner of the world to behold the splendors we display here, but so very few get the chance.” She clicks over to the left side of the stage. “Keep in mind that this is no ordinary show. There is a reason we have the reputation we do.” She clicks over to the right side. “It would be easy for me to stand here before you with some simple card trick,” and when she says the word card, her right hand snaps open a deck of cards from presumably thin air. She throws the cards up and they explode like fireworks before raining down like cherry blossoms. She smiles at the few gasps.

The audience claps again.

Cora huffs and hunches down in her seat like she’s bored.

Jackson couldn’t be more interested though—he hasn’t seen tricks like these before.

Estefania continues, “Or even do the old pulling a rabbit out of a hat.” She hides her hands behind her back with a grin before pulling a silver top hat from, again, thin air. She twiddles the fingers of her left hand over the opening of the hat before dipping her hand inside. She slowly pulls out with her hand coiled around the scruff of a baby Bengal tiger— _holy shit_.

The audience gasps and claps.

Estefania laughs and sets the baby tiger on the ground. “Whoops. Definitely not a rabbit,” she supposes in an amused tone. “Then again, I was never good at that trick.”

The baby tiger meows, walking loops around her ankles and rubbing up against her.

“Now what should we do with you?” Estefania wonders aloud. She taps her chin thoughtfully before she snaps her fingers and in a puff of smoke, the baby tiger becomes a stuffed animal. She picks it up and tosses it out into the audience.

The audience claps thunderously.

Estefania dips into a curtsey with a very pleased grin. “Well, now that I have your attention,” she says with a chuckle. She shushes them before she continues more seriously, “I always like to start the show by giving honor to the River Goddess of fertility and power, from whom we draw upon and give all our trust. We call her [**Mama Oba**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/547809/chapters/975536), which, after a few translations, literally means ‘King Maker’. I owe all that I have to her. Please.” She motions to the audience.

The audience claps respectively and when Jackson lifts his hands to do so as well, compelled by this unexplainable urge in his gut, Cora quickly reaches out and grabs his wrist to stop him.

“Don’t,” she warns with a furrowed brow. She doesn’t even look at him. She’s staring intently at the stage. “Something’s not right.”

Estefania runs her eyes over the audience before she sets her sights dead on them.

Cora growls lowly.

Estefania smirks like she can hear it before she clicks away and out of sight.

The curtain falls to a close over the stage.

Cora loosens her grip on Jackson’s wrist before letting go completely. She mutters, “Save my seat. If I’m not back by the end of the show, wait for me,” and she’s off before Jackson can protest or ask any prying questions.

“Fuck this,” Jackson whispers and he follows after her because he can. He slides out of the aisle as quickly as he can and pushes through one of the auditorium’s exits. He ducks to the left where a hall winds around the theatre but he doesn’t make it far before he hears Cora give a pained shout and her body goes thudding to the floor by his feet.

Cora gasps wetly around the fucking _led pipe_ sticking out of her gut. She coughs up blood and her eyes glow a steel blue while she wraps what looks like _claws_ around the pipe in her stomach as her face contorts with pain and into something that looks monstrous.

“Werewolf,” Jackson says faintly. “You’re a _werewolf?_ ”

“No shit, dumbass,” Cora chokes. “Now are you going to help me or do you need more time to _state the obvious_ while I bleed out?”

Jackson makes a strangled sound of frustration before he wraps his fingers around the pipe and pulls. He gags when the pipe exits Cora’s gut with a wet sound but he doesn’t contemplate it long because it looks like she’s already _healing_. “What the fuck?” he whispers.

Cora writhes a bit as the wound closes and she shifts back to her human form. She pants and bites out a, “Thanks.”

There’s a whistle in the distance.

Cora immediately springs to her feet and growls, “Get behind me.”

Jackson gets behind her and nervously awaits whatever or whoever it was that impaled her.

The lady bouncer comes strolling around the corner with a completely bored expression and a clawed cheek. “Cora,” she says. “Remember that little talk we had back in New York about your inability to keep your nose out of our business?”

“Weak memory, [**Meda**](http://archiveofourown.org/works/547809/chapters/975536),” Cora growls. “How about you guys, huh? Mere coincidence that you just so happen to be in Vegas?”

“Something like that,” Meda remarks flatly as the flesh of her cheek stitches together and heals over. “Now are you going to be a good little puppy and come with me? Or are we going to do this the hard way? Personally I like it hard.”

“Yeah? Turns you on?” Cora remarks with a challenging smirk. “You’ll be glad to know my dick’s really hard right now.”

“All for me?” Meda says with a raised brow.

“Yeah. Why don’t you come sit on it and spin,” Cora suggests.

Meda waves her hand through the air and pair of Italian stiletto switchblades materializes in both her hands. “You forget I’m not your type. You like them sweet. Like pretty little Malia. Perhaps I’ll pay her a visit next.”

Cora gives an enraged roar as she shifts and charges Meda head on.

Meda skillfully dodges the hard swipes of Cora’s claws aimed to her face. Her face stays indifferent the whole time as she gracefully circles out of Cora’s way and back around before striking like a viper, head-butting Cora in the forehead before striking with the switchblade by stabbing Cora in the neck where her larynx is.

Cora chokes around the knife and coughs up blood before dropping to her knees with a wet gasp.

Meda hums and tsks with faux sympathy as she stares down at Cora with a cocked head. She grabs a fistful of Cora’s hair and tugs her head back so she can get a good look at her face. “Have nothing to say now, do we? Though it must be incredibly hard to talk around a knife, yes?”

Jackson is shaking in fear, and he doesn’t know what to do, but he knows he just can’t stand there. He opens his mouth to say something.

Meda whips her gaze at him and her eyes are silver. She lifts her left hand until it’s parallel to her face and says, “Have something to say, little rabbit?”

Jackson swallows and hesitates.

“Go on,” Meda taunts placidly. “Tell the big bad witch why she shouldn’t hurt your friend.” She pauses. “No, friend isn’t quite the word is it? More like associate, maybe.” She cocks her head as her fingers twitch. “Ah, but that’s the thing with you humans. That moral compass of right and wrong. That unasked sense of culpability that urges you to intervene in a crisis.” She stares at him. “So go on. Be a hero. Do something. _Say_ something.”

Jackson feels his heart thudding wildly in his chest.

“I hear your heartbeat, little rabbit,” Meda says lowly as her silver eyes glow with intensity. “Such a pretty beat. I do enjoy the sound.”

Cora gurgles and looks ready to collapse but the grip Meda has in her hair keeps her upright on her knees.

Jackson balls his fists and squares his shoulders. He should stop being a coward. He should do something. _Do something._ “Let her g—”

Meda balls her suspended hand into a fist very quickly and all the air in Jackson’s lungs evaporate and his throat closes up. “I’m sorry, I’m not taking any requests at the moment,” she intones flatly.

Jackson chokes quietly and grabs at his neck frantically but he can’t make any air go in or come out. He collapses to his knees and doubles over as his face flushes with the effort to _breathe_. Then he feels the slow sharp grind of the edge of a blade cutting into the flesh of his back, carving wide letters and forcing white-hot pain to seep into his system.

He would probably puke if he could even breathe.

He collapses to his side and passes out to the sight of a figure clad in leather stride up to Meda and blow dark powder into her face.

888

**One Year Ago**

Jackson couldn’t wait to tell Lydia. His parents were getting him a Porsche. Of course he’s sure he’s not supposed to know yet until his birthday but who cares? A _Porsche._

Jackson strolls up to the Martin house and rings the doorbell, even though he texted Lydia six times that he was outside. She hadn’t replied, which wasn’t like her, unless she was mad. He hoped she wasn’t mad at him about something yet again.

Lucinda, Lydia’s deaf older sister, answers the door. She gives him a grim smile and signs, _You came on the wrong day._

Jackson frowns and signs back, _Why? What happened?_

 _Separation,_ Lucinda signs. _Dad and I are leaving. Going to Ireland. Permanent move._ Lucinda pauses and her hands stay suspended before she continues, _Lydia’s not happy. Depressed._

Jackson nods with understanding. He signs, _In her room?_

Lucinda nods and waves him in, stepping out of the way so he can pass through.

Jackson notices the boxes right away, as well as the way Mrs. Martin looms over Mr. Martin with a heavy glass of white chardonnay in the living room, which is littered with moving boxes. She seems to be silently stewing in the way that Lydia does sometimes when she’s dissatisfied with everyone’s behavior.

Mrs. Martin quickly saves face when she notices him. She says, “Hello, Jackson. What brings you by?”

“Lydia.”

“Right. Of course,” Mrs. Martin says tightly before she wanders off and disappears into the kitchen.

Mr. Martin (who is deaf as well) takes notice of him and greets him right away, signing, _Jackson! Good to see you again!_

 _Same,_ Jackson signs back with an awkward smile. _Sorry about the separation._

 _Happens,_ Mr. Martin signs with a sad smile. _Don’t be a stranger. Come with Lydia when she visits._

Lucinda huffs and waves her hand to get their attention before signing, _She will never come. Too proud. Too selfish. Hate us forever._

 _Lucinda, no. No._ Mr. Martin looks upset as he signs. _This is hard for all of us. All of us._

 _Whatever._ Lucinda storms off, perhaps to finish her packing.

Mr. Martin is still watching the steps where Lucinda ventured off to so Jackson waves his hand to get his attention. When he does, he signs, _Need help?_

 _No. Thanks. Go to Lydia._ Mr. Martin waves him off before he goes back to packing up his office.

Jackson sprints up the steps and knocks on Lydia’s door before he opens it.

The last thing he expects to see are all the lit red and black candles, or the circle of stones surrounding Blondie and Lydia, who seem to be chanting.

Jackson mutters a curse before he quickly shuts the door behind him and locks it. “What the hell are you guys doing?” he hisses. “And why the hell is Blondie holding a _knife_ over your dog, Prada?”

“My name is Erica Reyes, Jackson. Not Blondie,” Reyes corrects. “And we’re just doing a little bit of dabbling.”

“Dabbling? This looks like a bad episode of Charmed,” Jackson states and flushes when Reyes lifts a blonde brow at him. “Lydia makes me—you know what? That doesn’t matter. Why are you two seconds away from sacrificing that dog?”

“Binding spell requires the blood of something sacred or beloved of the caster. In this case: Prada,” Reyes explains like its just so obvious.

Jackson glares at her and then looks to Lydia, who looks like a wreck in her purple nightgown, messy hair and mascara-streaked cheeks. “Lydia, what the hell?”

“Just go home, Jackson,” Lydia says hoarsely. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“It does when my girlfriend has completely flipped her lid!” Jackson snaps.

“Well what am I supposed to do?” Lydia questions angrily. “My family is being torn apart and no one cares.”

“So this spell bullshit is suddenly the answer?” Jackson counters and isn’t surprised when Lydia springs to her feet.

“Lydia! Lydia, no! Don’t break the circle!” Reyes shouts in warning but it’s too late.

Lydia is trying to march towards Jackson, most likely to slap him or tell him off, but the moment she steps out of the circle the stones glow, hum and begin to vibrate before they crack the air with whips of fire.

Lydia cries out when these whips of fire curl around her like tentacles and hurls her to the other side of the room.

“Lydia!” Jackson shouts and runs to her but Reyes tackles him.

“No, you idiot! Don’t! If you touch her, you’ll die,” Reyes warns as she keeps him pinned to the floor with her own body.

Jackson watches helplessly as Lydia writhes against the ground like she’s having some type of seizure but there are these weird, orange glowing vines tattooed across her body. She looks like a human paper lantern. “What’s wrong with her?”

“My magic,” Reyes explains with a quick swear. She crawls over to Lydia and repositions her body before resting Lydia’s head onto her lap as her open hands hover beside Lydia’s temples. Reyes closes her eyes in concentration.

Jackson watches dumbly as Lydia’s eyes snap open and stares into Reyes’s.

Lydia’s jaw falls open and Reyes open her own, sucking the energy right out of Lydia’s mouth and taking it back inside herself. Slowly the glowing vines etched across Lydia’s body recedes upwards towards her mouth and finally the last of it exits out her open lips and up into Reyes’s mouth.

Reyes shudders and collapses onto her side as she pants.

Jackson scrambles over to Lydia just as she passes out and goes still. He sighs in relief when he can feel her chest rising and falling.

Reyes coughs and stumbles to her feet shakily. “So, this whole thing was a bad idea from start to finish.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Jackson snaps as he hugs Lydia closer. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I don’t know. That I could be of use? She’s a wreck, Jackson. You know things are desperate if she sought me out. But I haven’t—I never did something like this before and I thought I could handle it. Obviously I can’t,” Reyes admits with vague regret. “I need a helpmeet,” she mutters. Louder, she says, “Pick her up and put her on the bed. She’s going to sleep it off. She wont remember anything.”

Jackson clenches his jaw but stands with Lydia in his arms. He lays her down on her bed gently and tucks her in. He brushes her hair out of her face before he straightens. When he turns away, his heart almost leaps in his throat because Reyes is _right there_.

“Sorry,” Reyes says and touches her hand to his cheek. “I can’t let you remember this either. It’s too dangerous for me.”

Jackson shakes a bit as something warm and searching reaches inside his mind and he blinks as he notices the Asian girl standing in the corner watching them.

“Wake up,” she says. “You can wake up now.”

**Now**

Jackson wakes with a gasp and notices he’s laying face down on a king-sized bed covered in red silk comforters, sheets, and pillows. He groans and tries to lift up but cool hands press him back down with a shushing noise.

“Mustn’t move,” a soft voice says with a thick Korean accent.

Jackson groans. He feels sick. His stomach is sloshing uncomfortably. “What—where am—”

“You’re safe.”

Jackson turns his head but his vision is still blurry with the pain of a headache drilling holes inside skull and behind his eyes. He can only make out colors and sounds. He shivers as a wet cloth is pressed gingerly against his tender back.

“My name is [**Eun**.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/547809/chapters/975536)”

Jackson groans.

“Sorry for invading your mind,” Eun says as she pulls the cloth away to dip it into a basin of water and tealeaves. She lets it soak for a second before she holds it over Jackson’s back and wrings it out.

Jackson sighs in relief as the liquid pebbles over his back like cool rain.

“I had to be sure,” Eun continues, dabbing the rag against his skin. “If you were ever touched by magic. I sensed a locked memory and I sought it out. Mixing magic inside of a human can be very dangerous, but now that I know, I can heal you. Would you like that, Jackson?”

“I would like to know what’s going on,” Jackson whispers as he licks at his chapped lips.

“Are you thirsty?” Eun asks when she notices. She moves out of sight for a moment and then returns with a small blue sponge. She presses it against Jackson’s lips. “It’s honeysuckle. I brew it myself sometimes.”

Jackson hesitates but it smells really sweet and his tongue peeks out before he can help it. It is sweet, and the more he sucks in, the better he feels. His mouth retains its natural moisture and he doesn’t feel so nauseated anymore.

“There now. Better I imagine,” Eun says as she moves to take the rag off his back and drop it in the basin again. “This may feel strange, but try to relax.” She slides her small fingers across the planes of Jackson back before she inhales loudly, holds it, then exhales what feels like a strong gust of wind.

Jackson fidgets against the tingly sensation of his skin stitching itself together again. When the feeling stops, he carefully lifts himself and sits upright. He reaches behind him and tries to feel for the wounds but the skin seems to be flawless.

Eun watches him with glowing silver eyes and a modest smile. “Better, yes?”

Jackson nods and says, unsurely, “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Jackson looks around before he begins to climb off of the bed. “Where am I?”

“The Lady Estefania felt inclined to invite you into our home since Meda’s actions were reckless and uncalled for. Please don’t worry. No harm will come to you here,” Eun promises as she stands. “I will take you to your friend.”

Jackson frowns but he says nothing as he follows Eun out of her room and down the hall lined with self-portraits and to the study at the end of the hall.

Cora is already leaning against the fireplace with her arms crossed and a scowl with that one waitress, Yasmin, beside her. Eun goes to join them, keeping Cora between them.

Estefania is seated behind a mahogany desk in a leather chair with Meda on her left and the twins, August and June, on her right.

The only person Jackson doesn’t recognize is the pretty dark-skinned woman with long hair and knowing eyes.

“There. See?” Estefania quips as she indicates to Jackson. “The human boy lives. No harm, no foul.”

Cora scoffs. “Yeah, sure. If we selectively choose to forget the part where your psycho bodyguard over there knifed me in my goddamn throat and then used her magic to asphyxiate Jackson while her voodoo switchblade carved letters into his back. What was it that you were writing? ‘ _Meda was here_ ’, I believe.”

Meda stares at Cora before saying, “Oh dear. Your mouth is moving and words are coming out.” She tsks and twirls one of her switchblades between her fingers in a casual but threatening gesture. “It’s almost like you miss the taste of steel.”

Cora growls as her eyes flash a cold blue. “Come and try it,” she challenges with a gravelly tone.

“You’re right, M.,” August says with a smirk. “She’s feisty.”

“I don’t like feisty,” June drawls as he smirks meaningfully at Jackson and looks at him from under his lashes. “I like spoiled.”

Jackson flushes and fidgets when everyone’s gaze lands on him.

Cora’s brow furrow and she looks back and forth until she connects the dots. “Are you serious? Really? Them?” she says skeptically. “You slut.”

Jackson glares at her.

Estefania pounds her fist against her desk and the whole house shakes with it as her voice booms, “ _Enough._ ”

Everyone quiets.

“If we can focus on the task at hand,” Estefania continues in a calmer tone. She looks to the dark-skinned woman. “Marin—”

“Morrell,” she corrects.

Estefania stares at her before she smiles tightly. “Ms. Morrell. What brings you to our territory? I certainly didn’t put a request in for an Emissary. Especially not one currently affianced to an Alpha pack.”

Jackson watches the exchange with an equal amount of curiosity and confusion. This morning the world was the same as ever, and now it’s been cracked wide open with the knowledge of witches, werewolves and whatever else there was.

“Fucking wolves,” Meda mutters. “I hate them. And I hold no love for any that do.”

“That’s enough, Meda,” Estefania lightly warns as she stares at Ms. Morrell intently. “Enlighten me, Ms. Morrell. Why are you looming at my door?”

“You know very well. There are whispers in the network, rumors of a growing power that threatens to upset the balance,” Ms. Morrell replies. “You know of what I speak.”

Estefania continues to look as placid as Meda does while the twins grin savagely. She says, “Why are you wasting my time, _Marin_?”

“You’ve made it no secret that you and your coven are setting your eyes on Beacon Hills, and not because Peter Hale is on the verge of biting any and everyone he crosses paths with,” Ms. Morrell clarifies as she plants her hands on the edge of the mahogany desk and she leans forward. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You have a good thing here,” Ms. Morrell remarks. “It would be a mistake to chase after reckless imaginings.”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s a warning,” Ms. Morrell merely says. “You’re not the only one interested in the boy.”

“Perhaps,” Estefania concedes. “But I’ll be the first to secure his allegiance.”

“His allegiance lies with wolves and hunters,” Ms. Morrell reports.

“He doesn’t know better,” August supposes, as though she’s trying to comfort Estefania.

June adds, “He can be educated.”

“That’s how it usually goes,” Cora grumbles. “Hate _is_ generally taught.”

Estefania says, “Ms. Hale, I’d keep quiet if I were you. You’ve intruded upon my territory and paid me nothing but insult. I have every right to put you down like the dog you are if I so choose. Do not test my hospitality.”

Cora sneers.

“As for the boy,” Estefania goes on to say. “Would you rather he be left at the mercy of Julia? Or is that a rumor you’d rather not discuss? I’m told you were very close friends with her.”

Ms. Morrell stills before she glances over her shoulder at Jackson. “Ah. I see it now. This is why you’ve lured him here. You mean to use him against her.”

“Julia holds no love for anything but the vengeance she seeks to unleash upon your Alpha pack,” Estefania points out. “I doubt even her own son could persuade her.”

Jackson freezes in confusion.

Estefania assesses him. “Ask your other mother,” she advises. “She’ll tell you, Jackson. She’ll explain how she bore you from magic and hatred.”

“That’s enough,” Ms. Morrell interjects. “The old bones that were put to rest in West Africa have mysteriously disappeared. I’d recognize your magic signature anywhere. You’re playing a very dangerous game, Estefania.”

Estefania’s brown eyes bleed into glowing purple. “No. I believe I’m conquering it.”

“Do _not_ resurrect her,” Ms. Morrell warns. “She’ll tear the world apart before she ever does any good in it.”

Estefania ignores her and flicks her hand, sending Cora flying across the room and crashing into a wall.

Jackson flinches.

Cora passes out before her body even hits the ground.

Estefania hums thoughtfully before she flicks her glowing purple eyes over to Jackson. “I’m going to perform a spell on you, and you’re going to repay the debt of me allowing you to walk out of here alive. Do you understand so far?”

Jackson swallows and nods.

“Good,” Estefania purrs as she stands and rounds the desk.

Ms. Morrell boldly grabs her wrist and stills her. “Estefania, please. Do not involve him. In fact, do not involve yourself.”

Estefania keeps her gaze focused on Jackson. “You’re too late, Marin. I’ve already purified the bones and crushed them into dust. By now Mama Oba’s soul will have found a worthy host, and I’ll need the boy to find _her_.”

“You fool,” Ms. Morrell hisses. “You damn fool.”

“Yasmin. Eun. Please escort Ms. Morrell off the premises. She’s overstayed her welcome,” Estefania announces before snatching her wrist out of Ms. Morrell’s grasp.

Yasmin and Eun urge Ms. Morrell out of the study.

Estefania strides towards Jackson and places a hand onto his chest where his heart lies.

Jackson flinches nervously.

Estefania shushes him and says, “This wont hurt. It’s to make sure you don’t fall through on our little bargain, but it’s also a charisma spell to help you with your little assignment. Now the spell is only effective around adults who are above the age of thirty. Use it to your advantage and gain your mother’s trust. She has an old medallion that belonged to your other mother—it’s more like a pendant really. I need you to retrieve it and bring it to me.”

Jackson breath hitches as he feels something that feels like ice wrap around his heart.

“There we go,” Estefania murmurs and drops her hand as her eyes return to its normal shade. “I’m a generous person. I’ll give you until the end of the month.”

“What happens at the end of the month?” Jackson asks.

Estefania smirks slowly and she lifts her hand before she balls it into a tight fist.

Jackson chokes and doubles over onto his knees as his heart convulses with pain. It’s like there’s rope around it, tightening with a vice grip.

“You don’t deliver and your coroner’s report will state that you died of instant heart attack,” Estefania explains sweetly. “Understand?”

Jackson nods quickly and pants when the invisible grip on his heart lifts.

“Good.” Estefania clicks away and returns to her desk. “You’ll find your Porsche waiting for you outside. Drive Cora home.”

Jackson quickly scrambles over to Cora and lifts her (bridal style). He flees from under their heavy gazes.

He knows it doesn’t make him a coward.

It makes him sensible.

**Author's Note:**

> Well then, we’re only getting started. More is going to come and you’ll want to be around for that. Sorry it’s taken me a while to move things along, but I suspect you’ll come to find the wait was worth it. Don’t be shy, tell me what you think.
> 
> (Before anyone gets up in arms about my portrayal of Loretta or Tom, I'd like you to be aware that I myself am black. I am writing characters that I have known from personal experience. My grandmother, my aunts and my uncles and cousins and brothers and sisters and friends share the same dialect and mannerisms as Loretta and Tom. If that's racist than obviously today's media (which is in fact already predominantly white) needs to widen their perception of black characters. Yes, we can be well spoken and educated, but at the same time it's not incorporated in how we act and speak. Communication can be a cultural thing. When I speak to my family and friends I say "ain't" and "finna" and "I be" because that is the way we communicate with each other. It's a language, even if it's not considered 'proper' or even recognized by American culture as a dialect but rather slang. Anyone outside of our own culture would raise their brows at us and think we were speaking in an ignorant or "grammatically incorrect" manner, so we're careful about our dialect and mannerisms with people outside of our race. If you don't believe me then maybe some of you should read literature such as "Their Eyes Were Watching God" and "The Color Purple" and "Black Boy" and "Native Son" and "For Colored Girls" and "Clockers" because I am not the only black author that stays true and upholds our cultures unique way of interacting with others. All of us (as black people) are not cut from the same grain and we have ways we speak and act and it is not stereotypical at all. It is beautiful and our culture and behavior is our own. Loretta speaks the way she does to Jackson because she considers him family and at no point does she disrespect Mr. and Mrs. Whittemore when she speaks to them. The way Tom and Loretta speak and behave is not supposed to define the ENTIRE culture as a whole. How rational would that be? Its hard enough as a black author to present my work (let's not forget that this is fictional at that) to the public and especially to races that may not understand. Please be open-minded and considerate with your comments.
> 
> Thanks for reading.)


End file.
